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I turn to face Brady. “What are you reading?”
He doesn’t look up from his book. “The last book in the best fantasy series of all time.”
It’s obvious he wants me to stop talking so he can actually read the book, but I’m good at ignoring what teenagers want, though usually it’s for their good and not mine.
“Tell me about it?” I ask. “It’s been a while since I’ve read a book that sucked me in so deep, I didn’t want to leave.”
Brady studies me for a few seconds, decides I’m serious, and launches into an enthusiastic and detailed description of the first book in the series. I give him my full attention.
The center of town is about fifteen minutes away, and even after Miles parks in a lot behind Main Street, Brady is still telling me about the main character’s emotional journey.
As I climb out of the car, Owen holds out a hand to help me down. Without thinking, I place my hand in his. My skin tingles with the contact and once on solid ground I tug my hand away and fist it in my coat pocket.
Brady follows me out of the car still talking about his book, and I nod like I’m still listening. Owen’s touch has short-circuited my brain, and it’s impossible to focus on anything but him.
Owen gives me a look like he knows exactly why I started up this conversation with his brother and finds it funny I’m now stuck. He doesn’t look affected by our contact at all, which is irritating—I mean, good. We’re friends. Friends don’t have this kind of physical response to a quick hand hold. I’m being ridiculous.
Miles grabs a wheelchair from the back of the SUV andwheels it past us on his way to the passenger side door. Brady falls silent. Marianne covers her mouth with a hand. Expressions range from anxious to worried at what seems to be an unexpected wheelchair appearance. We watch as Miles helps Rheta from the vehicle.
“Don’t worry about me,” Rheta says with a wave of her hand. “In another month I’ll be as healthy as a woman my age can expect. Unfortunately this week, I’m still weak after my bout of the flu. Shall we head to town hall to pick up a map for the Christmas Tree Challenge?”
Marianne shakes off her surprise at the wheelchair with effort. “How fun!”
Am I the only one who doesn’t know what that is? No, because Owen asks his mom the same question.
“All the inns, hotels, and bed and breakfasts in the area decorate a tree in their lobby and visitors vote on their favorite. I haven’t done the challenge since I was Brady’s age. I didn’t know York still did it.”
“I thought you only spent summers here,” Owen says.
“We came for Christmas a few times. Your grandfather hated cold so we went somewhere warmer most years.”
We follow Rheta and Miles. People fill the sidewalk, bundled up against the cold. There are decorations on lamp posts, garlands along walls, and every business has a holiday display in their window. My favorite is the sweet shop where they’ve created a four-foot Christmas tree entirely out of candy. It finally feels like Christmas has arrived in Maine.
Not only are the decorations amazing, but the town itself is picturesque and quaint, with a small-town feel only historic downtown areas have. It also has a coastal vibe, with ocean paraphernalia and brightly painted buildings.
I love everything about this place. I can’t stop smiling. There’s a skip to my step.
We pass a street performer playing the opening chords of “Feliz Navidad”on his guitar. When he sings in a clear tenor voice, it’s impossible to resist joining in. I stand off to the side singing softly, but he must hear my harmonization, because he waves me forward. I comply and sing loud so that everyone gathered around can hear. He grins at me. I grin back. His fingers run along the fretboard with more enthusiasm as he adds his own little flair to Jose Feliciano’s song.
The surrounding crowd grows. I haven’t performed in a long time, and I’m reminded how much I love it. My whole being feels buoyant and bubbly. My body warms and I open my coat to cool down.
He plays the last chord then, without a pause, continues with “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” I lose track of where I am as we finish, and he starts in on another. When the third song draws to a close, the crowd claps enthusiastically. A flood of people comes forward and drop bills and change into his open guitar case.
The musician holds out his fist, and I bump it with mine.
“Nice,” he says. “Up for more?”
I glimpse Spencer’s family in the crowd and am reminded why I’m here. Music has a way of making me forget time.
“I wish, but I have to go,” I tell him regretfully. I drop all the change I have in my wallet into his case. “Thank you. You play beautifully.”
He places his hand over his heart. “Your voice is angelic.I’ll be here the rest of the week if you’re up for another round.”
That makes me laugh as I step over to the family.
Owen’s smiling. “That was amazing.”
“Layla, you have a gorgeous voice,” Rheta says. “Do you play the piano as well as you sing?”
