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We stand to thank her, and this time, when she hugs Rowan, he hugs her back.
“Jeanie would approve of this one,” she says, handing me my bag from inside the booth.
Oddly enough, I think Mom would like him, too.
Rowan rests his hands inside his pockets, looking around as if he’s not listening, but I know better. There’s almost nothing this man misses.
As if struck by a fond memory, she smiles. “I still remember when she would get those spaghetti cravings when she was pregnant with you.”
“They never went away. She loved this place as much as you do.”
Her hand is soft and warm on my cheek. “I know in my heart she’s rejoicing to see you so well taken care of. I mean, look at you. You’re glowing!”
My cheeks flush. “Thanks, Gia.”
“Ready to head back?” Rowan asks when we step out on the sidewalk.
I grip the strap of my backpack, excited to finally give him what’s inside. “Actually, I’ve got one last place to show you.”
* * *
The bell to Record Revival chimes, and Clyde’s head swivels my way when he sees the towering man beside me. “Molly—oh, hi there.”
“Hey, Clyde.” I wave, thankful to find the store empty. “Is it okay if I show Rowan around before we head to the back?”
He shoves his glasses higher up his nose, then scrambles around the front of the checkout counter. “Y-yes. Absolutely. And please, help yourself to whatever you want, Mr. Kendrick.”
When Rowan scrunches his brows at me in question, I whisper, “People are curious about you and the future of the Radley fortune. You’re practically a celebrity at this point.”
He purses his lips before responding to Clyde, “Thank you, but I won’t be needing anything. It appears I’m at Molly’s mercy this afternoon.”
I wrinkle my nose at him and humor brightens his gaze.
“Of course.” Clyde sweeps an arm toward the store floor. “Take your time.”
I walk through a sea of vintage records, dragging the tips of my fingers along their worn paper covers. “Sweet Home Alabama” plays softly while Clyde busies himself in the storage room, and the familiarity of my favorite space has my head bobbing and my hips swaying.
“So, this is your hideout?” His voice snakes down my spine, and though I can’t see where that gaze lands, I think I’ve got a good idea.
I glance over my shoulder, feeling more myself than I have in weeks. “Yup.”
He removes Elton John’s Honky Chateau album from the worn wooden rack, replaces it, and grabs something different. “You’re doing it again… What did Gia call it? Glowing.”
“Shut up,” I tease, enjoying how lively his eyes are today. They’re flashing with amusement, curiosity, and a mix of something that says he’s ready for another course—of the Molly variety.
Rowan follows me past a section of old posters cased in wall displays that function like giant, vertical Rolodexes. I absently flip through them, considering how much of myself I’m prepared to reveal.
But then, I brought him here, didn’t I? That’s telling enough.
“I come here every Wednesday,” I say. “Clyde lets me play my piano in a private room in the back.”
I can sense the intensity of his stare with every poster I turn. “Why here, and not at home?”
A youthful Matthew Broderick winks at me above a pair of black sunglasses. I focus on him instead of the man beside me when I admit, “I don’t want my dad to know I play.”
I’m given a stern look, as if he doesn’t want to ask why again.
I quickly scan through the posters, my eyes darting from one to the next without really seeing the images. “He’ll want me to pursue some sort of career or something with it, and we both know I can’t do that.”
