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“It’s wonderful. Did Damon paint it?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s so talented.”
I ignore the flare of jealousy I feel at her compliment. “Yeah, I saw the ones in his office and commissioned him to do one for me.”
She follows me out to the last room and stops in the doorway. Her jaw drops. “Oh my God.”
I smile and watch her walk in. It’s a music room, and the walls are lined with my twenty-six guitars.
“James,” she whispers. “Les Paul, PRS, Strat, Telecaster, Flying V, Jag, Gretsch… You’ve got one of everything!”
I feel a swell of pleasure as she recognizes all the different guitars. “Yeah, I’m quite proud of the collection.”
She turns her big hazel eyes on me. “You play?”
“I do. Do you?”
“Well, sort of. Acoustic, mainly. I was going to bring mine, but I’m glad I didn’t now. It would have felt really out of place!” She laughs.
I walk over to the Martin, lift it off its hooks, and pass it to her. “Here you go. You can use this while you’re here.”
Her jaw drops again. “Oh my God. This must have cost you a fortune!”
“About ten grand, yeah. Go on, try it.” I want to see her play.
She perches on one of the chairs, resting it on her lap. She forms a C chord, and its beautiful voice rings out, perfectly in tune. Smiling, she starts strumming. To my surprise, she plays The Eagles’ Hotel California.
As she strums, I lift the Telecaster off the wall and sit opposite her, listening. She plays well, confident with the chords. When she reaches the guitar solo, I start playing. She tries to harmonize with me the way Felder and Walsh did on the original, but can’t quite nail it, and eventually we stop with a laugh.
“It’s a bit beyond me,” she says. “I’m more of a rhythm girl.”
“Tough on an acoustic.” I replace the Tele on the wall.
She hands the Martin to me, but I say, “Keep it for now.”
“Okay.”
I pick up a small stand, walk back through to the living room, put it next to one of the armchairs, and she places the guitar on it.
Outside, the sun is very low in the sky. I wander over to the sliding doors, open them, and go out onto the deck. Aroha follows me, and we stand side by side, looking out over the garden. Aroha hums Listening for the Weather, one of Maddie’s favorite songs.
“Maddie stood right where you’re standing only a week ago,” I say.
Aroha turns to look at me and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I can almost see her. It’s so clear to me. But that image I can see is like when you look into a bright light and you see an imprint on your lens. She’s gone. And she’s not coming back.” I shake my head, looking out across the lawn. “I can’t believe it.”
She doesn’t say anything. I fight against a surge of emotion. Jesus. I hate the way it keeps hitting me. I feel as if someone’s trying to carve out my heart with a melon baller. I exhale, and it comes out as an involuntary, painful, “Ahhh…”
Aroha turns to me, and she holds out her hand. I look at it for a moment, too miserable to move. I don’t want pity, and I don’t want her to witness my grief.
But she picks up my hand and then moves closer to me, brings our hands up, and places her left on my shoulder.
“Dance with me,” she says simply.
Out of politeness, I guess, I move from side to side with her. My feet feel frozen to the floor for a while, my back rigid. I feel resentful, hating the fact that she’s trying to comfort me, and even more that gradually it’s starting to work.
