Goddess, I hurt for him. Jimmy and Elaine were so in love. So wonderful together.
Her death almost destroyed him.
“Sure. What should I touch?”
He looks around the room, almost desperately, and then points at the piano in the corner. “She loved to play. It was her favorite part of the day.”
“Then I’ll start there.”
I take a deep breath, sit on the bench, uncover the keys, and then rest my fingers on the ivories and smile. “Oh, Jimmy. You’re right. Playing was the best part of her day.”
“Can you talk to her? Can you tell her that I love her?”
His voice is full of tears.
“No, you know that’s not my gift. I can only see what was. But she did love this piano. More than that, she loved you and Jackson. Being a wife and mother filled her cup, Mr. Jimmy.”
“I know.” He drops back into his chair and wipes his eyes. “I know it did.”
“She was playing that morning.” I frown as the image comes into my head, sharp as can be. “She was playing and smiling. Fiddling with a new song. Something for your anniversary. Then, she felt so tired. Just so, so tired, and thought she’d take a nap before she got dinner started.
“She went up to the bedroom and laid down, thinking of you and Jack. Wondered if maybe Jack would come for dinner, too. And she could make some strawberry shortcake for dessert. She wanted to have both of her men under one roof for a meal. She missed Jack after he moved out and started taking classes in the city. But she was so proud of him, too. And so happy that he was with a nice girl.
“And then, she just drifted off to sleep. No dreams. No pain. Just…sleep.”
I shake myself out of the vision and whip my head around to stare at Mr. Jimmy, who’s sobbing quietly now and watching me with so much grief and guilt, I feel ashamed for saying everything I just did.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all of that.”
“No, you should.” He swallows and wipes at the tears on his cheeks. “Now I know what her last moments were like. Damn it, Daphne, it was my fault.”
“No—”
“Yes. I’m the one who didn’t fix that gas leak correctly. Didn’t want to spend a few hundred dollars to hire someone to handle it the right way. And because of that, because of a few dollars, my baby’s gone.”
I don’t know what to do. What to say.
“Daph?”
I blink and glance over at Jack, who’s watching me with a scowl. “Huh?”
“Where’d you go, sweets?”
“Oh. Just memories. You can definitely sell the piano. Let’s move on.”
“Daph—”
“Let’s move on,” I say again and uncover another piece.
After thirty minutes, we’ve mentally cataloged everything in the garage. He has a small fortune just sitting here.
“I’m happy to consign all of this for you, Jack.”
“Awesome, thank you. I’ll make arrangements for it to be shipped to Reflections.”
I nod as he closes the door, locks it, and then turns to me. “Let’s grab some gumbo.”
“Let’s talk first.”
“No.” I rest my hand on his shoulder. I can’t read his thoughts like I once could, and that’s for the best. “I’m hungry, and Miss Annabelle went to a lot of trouble. So, we’ll go eat.”
He curses under his breath but doesn’t argue as I set off for the house.
* * *
“Miss Annabelle hasn’t changed a bit.” I lean back against the car seat with the window rolled down, enjoying the hot air as it blows through my hair. “She’s sweet and sassy all at once. And makes the best gumbo ever—don’t tell Millie I said that.”
He laughs and nods, turning onto my street. “She’s the best. Mind if I come up for a bit?”
“We’ve spent a lot of time together today,” I point out.
“Sick of me?”
Surprisingly, no. I’m not sick of him at all.
“Not yet.”
He laughs and cuts the engine, smiling over at me. “Please, can I come up with you?”
“You’re such a pouter.” I roll my eyes but don’t tell him no as we get out of the car and head to my front door. “Fresh blood on my door. Millie’s been here.”
“I’m not new to any of these things, yet that gives me the willies,” Jackson confesses as I unlock the door and step inside.
“Yeah, well, it makes her feel better.” I kick off my shoes and pad into the kitchen for a glass of wine. “Want some?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
He waits while I pour.
“Okay, what is it?” I ask when I return to the living room and sit on the couch facing him. “Just say it already.”
“What happened in the garage?” he asks. “When you touched the piano, it was different from the other things.”
“Just a memory.”
“Bullshit.”
But his voice is mild as he sits back and watches me.
“Okay, we’re being open and honest, right? Because of this predicament we’re in?”