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She meandered up the trail leading toward the house, then stopped at where it split. If she went right, she’d end up on the porch, and if she veered to the left, she’d end up at the garage.
Left it was.
It took a few seconds to make it to the structure’s side door. She tucked the tray under her arm and gripped the doorknob. Just as she’d suspected, the door was unlocked. The hinges creaked their displeasure as she edged inside the musty space. In the waning light, she spied a string attached to a naked lightbulb.
“Let there be light,” she murmured, but she didn’t pull the string immediately. Instead, she listened for a peep or a giggle but was met with a blanket of silence.
Her runaway niece must have retreated to her hiding place.
She pulled the cord, and a soft glow lit the interior. There weren’t any vehicles in this garage. Weathered boxes lined a wall, and a couple board games in tattered boxes sat atop a tower of folding chairs. A trombone and a guitar were propped near the entrance, along with a cluster of rusty shovels and spindly brooms. She waved away the dust dancing in the stagnate air and drank in the rest of the space. The garage wasn’t so different from her attic, save for one thing. She spotted an upright piano next to a stack of milk crates on the far wall.
And then it hit her.
This was the birthplace of Heartthrob Warfare.
This was the garage where Leighton, Landon, and Trey Grant had made music. She hadn’t been sure that part of the Heartthrob Warfare origin story was true. Music labels and slick PR firms could spin fiction to make their artists appealing. Hell, people thought Vance was a poetry-spouting, lyrical genius which was a crock of shit. But here she was, standing in the place where three Colorado kids started a garage band, then made it big.
She set the tray on the piano bench and sat next to it. It didn’t matter if she was seated in front of a pricy Steinway or a child’s keyboard. She couldn’t help but love being near the instrument. Resting her fingertips on the keys, she noticed something curious about this piano. She reached up and slid her index finger across the top of a crate and traced a line in the dust. A gray sheen covered the forgotten items in the garage, save for one thing.
The piano.
There wasn’t a speck of dust on it.
Someone kept this instrument clean.
Someone cared for this piano. And she had a feeling she knew the identity of this mystery musical aficionado.
Her first clue came when a light sprinkling of dust from above tickled her nose and revealed the runaway’s secret spot.
The rafters.
Smart kid.
Hardly anyone looked up when they checked a room.
But it was time to shake the pint-sized heathen from her perch.
She played the middle C key, and the note floated in the air with the flecks of swirling dust. Feeling Aria’s eyes on her, she picked up a bonbon and theatrically waved it like her grandfather used to wave his conductor’s baton. With an air of pomp and circumstance, she popped the chocolate into her mouth, and the lyrics came to her like they always did.
Sweet, so sweet, hello, to my favorite treat.
Her fingers fluttered across the keys, making up a melody to her bonbon jingle, when a tingle worked its way down her spine. Usually, her mind would open and merge with the music, but not today. Sitting on the bench with Aria scrutinizing her every move from above, her thoughts went to Leighton Paige, the girl’s mother. The woman had sat here, at this very piano. She’d watched Leighton play on stage in countless videos. She’d connected with the pop star in the one-sided way regular people bonded with celebrities. Still, the connection never sent a shiver through her. But the sensation wasn’t foreboding. Quite the opposite, it welcomed her like a friend. She lifted her hands from the keys and sat there for a beat, then two, waiting as a plume of silence filled the room.
“You’re the nanny-aunt lady. Your name is Harper.”
Hello, sassy tough gal.
Aria had barked the terse greeting like she’d been anticipating this moment.
She could respect the kid going to great lengths to arrange this meeting.
Biting back a grin, she looked over her shoulder at a pair of dangling shoelaces, then shrugged. “Yep, I’m Harper.”
Best to play the aloof card for now.
“Are you scared of snakes, Harper, the Nanny Aunt?” the kid grumped. This child could lay on the surliness.
“No.”
