The Perfect Love Song (8 page)

“I wanted to talk to y’all about something,” Jimmy said.

“Oh?” Jack asked, lifting the top to the cooler. “What is it?”

“Well, it just happened yesterday, and I haven’t yet figured out what to do or how to say it. But here goes.” Jimmy recited, again, the entire conversation with Milton.

Silence filled the afternoon. Well, not a real silence, but the quiet of nature: a splash, a seagull cry, a thick cricket-and-frog song, waves washing across the shattered shells in a sound that Jimmy had once written a song about titled “The Sea’s Song of Broken Dreams.”

Kara spoke first. “You’ll be done in time to get to Ireland for the wedding, right?”

Charlotte laughed, but quietly as if in reverence for the question. “I knew that would be the first thing you asked.”

Jack walked to the shoreline.

Jimmy turned to Charlotte, shrugged. “I’ll be there, but maybe I shouldn’t . . . ”

Then Jack turned and faced the group, his face unreadable. “Jimmy, bro, I am so proud of you. I want to say the right thing right now, and I can’t. I’m so proud.”

Jimmy stood and walked to his brother’s side. “You okay with this? I won’t go if . . . ”

Jack held his hand up. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Not go? I wouldn’t allow it. You must go. This is . . . so right and good.”

“But the band. They’re gonna be pissed off. This will really mess up our holiday schedule. I mean—if I’m gone from end of November to end of December, we can’t do a single holiday party or concert. That’s lost money. But I’ve thought a lot about it, and I’ll make enough money to give
back the band double what they would’ve made with holiday gigs.”

Jack reached into the cooler and pulled out the chilled bottle of wine that Kara had packed. He wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but this moment deserved a toast. As much as the thought of not spending the holiday season with his brother almost broke Jack’s heart, he was filled with proud pleasure.

Ah, the love when you care more for the other person’s joy than you do your own. The real joy, not the kind that is meant to bring approval or love in return, but simple delight at another’s happiness.

“It’s done then,” Jack said. “There is no more discussing it. You’ll do it.”

Kara stood now and walked to Jack’s side. “This means you’ll be home the entire holiday season. This means . . . ,” she bit her lip, “you’ll be here while we get ready for the wedding. You’ll be . . . home.” She exhaled the last word as if were the most beautiful word she’d ever spoken, and maybe it was.

Jack looked at her and pulled her close. “Yep. Right here. Sometimes things work out, don’t they?”

Kara cringed when she realized that what meant a good thing for her meant loneliness for Charlotte. She looked to her best friend and smiled a sad smile.

Jimmy took Charlotte’s hand. “You can come to every concert. I’ll meet you in Ireland. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

“Of course I can’t come to every concert, silly,” Charlotte said. “But I’ll come to whatever ones I can. And really, it’s months away. Let’s just have fun today.” She kissed his palm. “I’m so proud of you. This is such a great opportunity. And yes, Ireland. We’ll have that.”

Kara clapped her hands together. “Speaking of—can we talk about it for one minute? I promise I won’t be a Bridezilla and talk only about this wedding for the next six months, but I just want to ask y’all a couple quick questions. I desperately need your opinion.”

“You so don’t need my help,” Charlotte said. “This is your expertise. Planning. It’s what you were born to do.”

Kara bent over and picked up a small gray-and-white-striped shell and threw it at Charlotte. “Thanks, pal.”

“Hey!” Charlotte ducked, and then caught the shell in the air. “That was a compliment.”

“Well, Jack and I really want to somehow honor Maeve Mahoney at the wedding. If it weren’t for her, for her myth and her story, we wouldn’t all be here today. There must be something we can do to honor her.”

Jimmy dug his feet farther into the sand. “I think getting married in her hometown and using Claddagh rings for your wedding bands are more than enough. I mean . . . ”

“Yeah,” Kara sat down on the blanket and took a sip of wine from her plastic cup, “but those are more about me than they are about her. I mean, I want to go to Ireland. I want a Claddagh ring. I’m trying to think of something that is all about her, about her family and her story.”

“Well,” Charlotte said, “what meant the most to her?”

Kara stared out across the sea, trying to remember some of Maeve’s words and advice. “I think she cared most about how story affects and opens our hearts. She cared about love and going all the way through a story. She believed in angels. She believed in love returning. Always this: love returning. She thought we all lived the same stories over and over at different edges of the sea. She didn’t believe we should hold tightly to life, but keep our hands open.”

“Yes, we honor all those things by the way we live, I think,” Charlotte said.

Kara’s eyes returned to the group. “I got it: her words. Last year I wrote down all the things she’d said and taught me. I can find something in there to put into the vows.”

“Perfectly perfect,” Charlotte said. “See, you didn’t need me at all.”

“Ahya,” Kara said, imitating Maeve Mahoney, “I just needed you to listen.”

And yes, sometimes that is all we need.

Charlotte rubbed her thumb across the concave dip of the shell that Kara had thrown, and then she slipped it into her beach bag. She never wanted to forget this day, this feeling of overwhelming love that was as profound as any love letter written.

We all hold onto things for memory; Charlotte would need this shell. Yes, she would—a reminder of love, both friendship and romantic.

—OLD IRISH PROVERB

 

 

 

 

T
he trees were barren, and Jimmy spied a single leaf, shivering as if it were a living thing left alone in the frigid October wind by a cruel god. He was in Lexington, Kentucky, on a bench in an empty park. God, what he’d give to be in Palmetto Pointe.

Jack came and sat next to him, groaned. “That was the worst crowd last night.”

Jimmy shook his head. “You call that a crowd?” he asked. “So, when does this stop being worth it? I mean, how long do we wait to break out before these gigs kill us?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m guessing we’ll know by the end of your Christmas tour. If that doesn’t start to change things, then we’ll have to rethink all of this.”

The iron bench felt like ice; Jimmy pulled his coat closer around his body, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Don’t let the band hear you say that. And man, way to put the pressure on me.” He smiled. “So if my perfect Christmas song isn’t so perfect, then we’re all done for good?” He shoved his elbow into his brother’s ribs.

“Yeah, yeah. Poor you having to go out on the fancy Christmas tour.”

“You know, I could ask if you can come and be my irreplaceable manager.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Carrying your bags while fans swoon all over you when I could be with Kara during the holiday season? Hmm . . . Let me think about that one.”

Jimmy laughed that laugh that echoes into the sky, into the earth. “I got it. You’ve finally chosen the girl over me.”

“I can recall a time or two when you chose the party over me. I won’t have to think long or hard.”

“Those days are long over, my bro.”

“I talked to Mom yesterday.”

“She okay?”

“She’s great. But there’s just no way for her to make the wedding. She’s just too . . . frail . . . to travel that far. I told
her not to worry about it, but of course she’s worried. I assured her that we knew she’d be there in spirit.”

A honk echoed across the empty park, and the brothers turned to see Isabelle standing on the bus steps, waving at them to hurry.

Jimmy waved back and looked at Jack. “All right, let’s go.”

Jack exhaled and stood, staring off into the winter day. “What city are we in?”

“Lexington.”

“That’s right. Lexington. Two more cities and then home.”

They walked toward the bus, and Jimmy shook his head. “Who would’ve ever thought we’d call Palmetto Pointe home again?”

Who indeed?

Days and time moved forward until on a frigid November afternoon, Jack, Kara, and Charlotte said good-bye to Jimmy, waving as he climbed aboard the fanciest tour bus they’d ever seen—a house on wheels. Kara and Charlotte then spent their days preparing for the wedding, for the holidays, hoping against hope that the busyness would keep the loneliness at bay.

T
he sweet, sugary aroma of shortbread filled Kara’s small white house. It was the week after Thanksgiving, and Charlotte burst through the front door and called Kara’s name. She clapped her hands together, as the November cold had come early this year and Charlotte wasn’t prepared, not even a coat did she wear. “I love this house,” Charlotte called out. And she did. The whitewashed walls, the crooked floors, the single bedroom and bathroom, the galley kitchen with room enough for only the essentials, the whitewashed furniture that Kara had found in flea markets and antique marts, refusing family heirlooms when she was trying so hard to make her own way in the world.

Across the round, ancient pine kitchen tabletop Kara had spread photos of Christmas lights strung across various porches, trees, and lanterns. Charlotte walked over, leafed through the photos.

Kara came out of the kitchen, flour on her face and hands like a dusting of angels’ wings. “Hey, you,” she said.

“These,” Charlotte said, pointing to the photos, “are amazing. What are you doing?”

Kara smiled. “I wanted to do a collection of Lowcountry Christmas lights. I took those pictures last year. Most are from around here, but some are from that trip to Savannah on New Year’s Eve.”

Charlotte picked up a photo of a gas lantern with the lights winding their way up the iron pole. “I think I love this one the most. What are you doing with them?”

Kara shrugged. “I think I’ll add Irish ones after this trip and then . . . maybe next year . . . have a show?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said. “Just yes.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “Okay, I guess you started our gift tins without me?”

“You’re only an hour late.”

“Sorry. Jimmy was finally able to call, and I wanted to . . . catch up. He’s in Atlanta. The Fox. It’s so exciting for him I can hardly be sad, but somehow I am. I just miss him with this dull ache that won’t go away.”

Kara flinched. “This is hard for you. I know. I’m sorry.”

“At least I’m crazy busy with work. Everyone wants the perfect Christmas decorations, like Christmas is a competitive sport and the neighbors’ envy is the prize.” She sighed. “And there’s only three weeks left. What’s three weeks?”

What indeed?