Page 14 of The Best Christmas Choir Ever

“The way you used to talk to people. Anyone. Everyone. You could start up a conversation with a stranger at the store or someone walking past your grandmother’s house while we sat on the porch.”

“You remember that?”

He nodded. “You have a way of engaging with people. Of making them feel comfortable and welcomed into any space. I always marveled at how you did that. And I figured you couldn’t possibly have a shy bone in your body.”

Listening to him talk made her breath catch, the fondness threatening to give her whiplash. One second he acted like he barely knew her, like he wished he didn’t know her, and the next he was recounting details of that summer. She didn’t understand him. Confusion bled through her, quickly replaced by frustration which ate away at her panic, burning it from her veins.

“Look, if you really don’t think you—”

“No,” Charlie said, stepping away. “It’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

She looked at him, trying to peer past his concerned exterior to figure out which Julian Guerrero stood before her: the boy who’d always made her feel seen or the man who seemed to prefer to forget her. She couldn’t tell, so she gritted her teeth and nodded. “I’m sure.”

“You’re gonna do great,” Julian said, backing away. “I’ve gotta go track down a bus driver. But if you have any issues, you know where my office is.”

“Sure.” He had a job to do, and so did she. Because she’d agreed to this.

Charlie turned to face the roomful of elderly residents. Well, roomful might be too optimistic. There were about eleven of them, one of which included her grandmother. In truth, the population wasn’t that different from the crowds that used to turn up at the concerts she and Tom performed. When you sang a lot of arias and classics from the Golden Age of theater, most of the audience tended to be over sixty-five.

She took a deep, steadying breath. Focus. The voice was like a muscle. All she had to do was get those first notes out, and then time and hours of practice would hopefully take over and do the rest.

“Well,” Charlie said, addressing her little crowd as she tried to ignore the way her hands were shaking. “I guess it’s just us today. I am very happy to be here with you. Unfortunately, I came upon this role somewhat unexpectedly.” She glanced at Gram across the room, raising a brow, earning herself a few chuckles. “So I don’t have anything grand planned for our first class together. Instead, I thought I might sing a little for you.”

Charlie crossed to the piano and hit middle C. Her entire body reacted to the note that rang out. It felt a little like crawling out of her skin. “That’s very out of tune,” she said, and the group laughed again. “A capella it is.”

She grabbed the old mic stand and dragged it back to the center of the room just to give her hands something familiar to hold, something to ground her.

“Okay,” she said, easing herself into performance mode. “This first number is one some of you might recognize. It’s from a little musical that came on the scene in 1964. My Fair Lady.”

There were smiles of appreciation and laughter as she glanced at the group.

“Kidding. It’s not that little. I’m sure most of us have seen this show. If not onstage, then perhaps the movie with the ever-charming Audrey Hepburn as Eliza Doolittle.”

“Charlie and her brother spent a good many summers twirling around my living room to that movie,” Gram said to the group.

“We certainly did,” Charlie said quietly, anxiously, feeling like she might be sick. The show must go on. “Ladies and gentlemen.” She forced a smile, the words almost catching in her throat. “This is ‘I Could Have Danced All Night.’”

Four

Charlie

Charlie never wanted to see another piece of dishware ever again.

Gram had squirreled away dishes in every room of the old Victorian, and only now that Charlie was trying to organize the house did she realize just how extensive the collection really was. There were flower-patterned dinnerware sets and tea sets and crystal wineglasses and champagne flutes and…too much. It was just too much crap for one person.

Charlie carried an empty box through the foyer, cutting into the dining room and groaned at the massive china hutch. There were sets upon sets of dessert plates and soup bowls and silver ladles and salt and pepper shakers shaped as random animals winking at her from behind the glass. Suddenly the freshly prepped cardboard box in her hand felt entirely inadequate.

She’d already spent the early morning avoiding the second floor by tackling Gram’s bookshelves.

Gram had put sticky notes on everything, noting which books had been slated for donation and which were to be kept in the family. Charlie had recognized an adventure series she and Tom had been obsessed with when they were teens. She remembered lining up in town for the midnight summer release of the last book. Gram had indulged them both with a copy, mostly to stop them from fighting over who would get to read it first.

The memory had come out of nowhere, slipping past her defenses, as clear as the day it happened. Remembering that night had almost winded her, and Charlie had spent an hour on the floor in front of the bookshelf, flipping through the yellowing pages, blinking away the weight behind her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. Not in this house. If she did, she might never stop.

Her phone buzzed, and she slipped it out of her pocket to find a text from Alicia. You around?

Yes, she replied.