Page 87 of Carver’s Craving

I blinked. “I’m going to call my old job tomorrow. See if I can get back on their roster in the new year.”

“You hated that job.”

“Well…sort of…? But I’m good at it and, when I make a sale, I get a bonus. To me, that’s worth doing.”

“If you could do anything, though, what would it be?”

I swallowed. “Anything? Well, I’d teach. But there’s no way I’m going to be able to finish my degree and then get into teacher’s college. My dyslexia’s too bad. And my mind doesn’t work that way.”

He frowned. “I don’t know what that means. But you’re teaching Zia how to play guitar at the drop-in center. More kids are hoping to take classes in the new year.”

“Sure. Cody said he’s going to approach a local foundation about sponsoring the purchase of more musical instruments.” That, at least, made me feel…worthwhile.

“That’s great. What if you took on private students? Sure, you don’t have any formal training. But you used to sing and play guitar in a freaking rock band. That’s really worth something.” He gestured to my guitar. “You took Mom’s words and made something beautiful.”

“Yeah.” I couldn’t deny I was proud of that.

“She killed herself. Did I tell you that?”

I stilled. “Yeah.” I whispered the word. I longed to reach out and take his hand, but I wasn’t certain that was the right thing to do.

“That’s right. Like I said, I’d just graduated university. Her death was ruled a suicide. I just…had to pick up the pieces. I piled all her writings in boxes, sealed them, and carried on. Eventually I found gigs in the theater and then moved to working at rock concerts. I carved a path for myself.” He smiled ruefully. “Ha. Carver carved a path.”

This time, I did reach out. I put my hand on his. “You found a way to move on. But to never forget.”

He tilted his head.

“You kept her writings. Some people would’ve, I don’t know, burned them. Or recycled them—the environmental thing to do. Or left them behind. Not everyone would’ve had the courage to pack them into an SUV and drive across the country with them, planning to someday face what was in there.”

He swallowed.

“That’s fucking brave. That’s facing tragedy and making something out of it. Hell, you could’ve told me to get lost when I asked about them. You didn’t. You let me see your mother’s heart and mind.” I squeezed his hand. “There’s more musical stuff.”

“She was an aspiring musical actress. The mental illness made that challenging. But when she was on a med that worked, she sang in musicals. And damn well. That’s why I went into theater. One day, I wanted to work on a production she was in.” He swallowed. “Obviously, that never happened.”

I cupped his cheek with the hand not gripping his. “Well, we can sort of make that happen. You can be the stage manager…if I find the courage to perform again.”

His dark-brown eyes lit. “Yeah?”

“Sure. It’ll take me a few months, and I’d need my amplifier, but I can see myself composing enough songs for a set. And the rest? I think you could make a book of poetry. Not the most upbeat material—although I found some positive stuff. But if you trust me, I think I could put something together. I don’t know if I’d be able to find a publisher—I’d have to look into that. But if I find an editor who was willing to help me? I might be able to do something.”

“You should talk to Dickens. As a bookshop owner, he’d be plugged into the literary scene, right? He knows RD Watts.”

“Sure.” I grinned. “Thanks to you, I was able to get a library card. I’m queued to borrow the first audio in RD’s Zaragosa series. Marnie the librarian swears I’m going to love it.”

“That’s fantastic. Audiobooks are so great. I prefer reading, but I know a couple of guys on the crew who swear they read way more because they can listen.” He grinned right back. “How did you manage with mom’s stuff and your dyslexia?”

“My phone app that reads things to me worked for some of it. And your scanner helps me keep things organized in digital files. Now, some of the stuff is…uh…”

“Chicken scratch?”

“Well…yeah. If you’re up to it, and I mean only if you are, I’d love if you—or someone else—could copy it in a document that the computer can then read to me. I do better on the computer than on paper. Except for composing music. I mean, I’ve got a composition app—and some basic recording equipment in the van—but I’m focusing on the simple right now.”

Carver winced. “It all comes back to the van.”

I squeezed his hand. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

“Have you spoken to Seth?”