Page 86 of Hauling Ashe

“Can you give this to Tucker? He’ll need it before he plays.” I hold up the harmonica I saw him slip from his shorts and set on the dresser. Maybe he wanted it with him today. Maybe he didn’t. But the sentimental gift might bring him luck tonight. He played beautifully on the street corner in Winslow. He can do it again.

“You should just tell him. He’ll understand,” Brut encourages me, but I see he’s torn. Brut’s admiration for his now daughter-in-law has been apparent all weekend. He doesn’t want to hurt her, and I’ll never forgive myself if Tucker follows me instead of playing for Julia.

“You can tell him later. For me,” I say.

Brut’s brows pinch. “I don’t like this.”

“Brut, I need to get to my boys.”

His shoulders fall. He’s been a single father most of his life. He knows the position I’m in. My children need me, and I have to go.

“How will you get home?”

I explain how I’ll Uber to the airport. I can leave Louie for Tucker, or better yet, I’d always planned to sell the car when I got to California. Flying home was on the original itinerary. The spirit trip was one-way. “My ex-husband bought it with borrowed money.” I choke around the lie. “And my son doesn’t want it. I might need the money for his medical expenses anyway.”

“We could have it shipped to you,” Brut begins but I’m already shaking my head. The expense is one I can’t afford, nor do I want. “Okay, I run a restoration garage. I can unload it for you. Leave the keys at the front desk and text me when you get to the airport.” Brut lifts his phone and takes my number, adding it to his contacts and texting me his. “Are you sure about this?”

I’m not. I should talk to Tucker. But not now, as I need to get home.

“I’ve got to go. It was a beautiful wedding.” I press up on my toes to kiss Brut’s cheek and race back to the room, gathering my things like a runaway bride and escaping the resort before doubt settles in.

41

Playlist: “In My Life” – The Beatles

[Tucker]

My palms sweat. My heart races, and Mae is nowhere to be seen. She excused herself before we started our sound check, saying she’d be right back. Only a few minutes ago, I noticed her by the barn door entrance, lingering in the doorway with Brut. From this distance it was hard to tell what they were talking about, but Brut held her shoulders at one point. I didn’t like it. Although I know he’s a happily married man, I don’t like the sight of someone else touching her. Mae is mine.

As Denton strums a guitar and Hank raps out a few beats on the drums, I stare at the keys under my fingers. Tommy taps at the microphone, and I glance up, seeking Mae. Brut walks with determination toward the stage.

“Mae asked me to give you this.” He hands over my harmonica and I’m stumped.

“What? Where is she?”

Brut holds his head still. “She went to your room.” The struggle on his face hints there’s something he isn’t saying.

“Should I check on her?” I shift to stand.

But Brut holds up a hand. “She doesn’t want you to miss this moment.” Brut stares at me, keeping his eyes on mine but I can’t read what he isn’t saying. The guys are waiting behind me and despite sensing something is off, I accept what he says. Still, my chest pinches at her absence. Mae would want to hear what we have planned. My road trip lover with her giant playlist of songs will appreciate our set.

“Everybody having a good time?” Tommy bellows, gripping the mic. “We want to thank Julia and Chopper for including us in their special day and giving us this opportunity to reunite. We can’t promise we’ll be great.” He pauses to chuckle. “But these old guys still have talent, and I wouldn’t want to be on any stage with anyone else.”

“Hey,” a voice calls out in the crowd, and I recognize Gage Everly, the lead singer of Collision, the band Tommy now manages.

“You’ll get your turn tonight, kid,” Tommy jokes of his charge, who is also his nephew by marriage and not a kid at over thirty. Julia volunteers at his wife’s music therapy school. My daughter has such a generous heart.

“We thought we’d start out with a Beatles classic in honor of the lovely bride and per Chopper’s request.” Tommy pauses. “Here’s ‘Julia.’”

As we begin the song, Chopper leads my daughter onto the dance floor, and they curl into one another. The love between them fills the room and I wish Mae was here to witness this moment. Still, I fall inside the song and let the music wash over me, a baptism of sorts to be on this small stage with these guys again. Maybe the sensation is more rising up from the ashes, as I’ve felt less than whole for so long, and this moment seems to be restoring the fire inside me.

We continue on, playing a song request from Julia for Chopper. Tommy still has a growly tone when he sings but admits he can’t hit the high notes he once did. His rendition of “Patience” is more Chris Cornell than Axel Rose. I’m not certain I understand the depth of this song in connection to the newlyweds, but Julia and Chopper began dating shortly after Rochelle’s death, and Julia has hinted that Chopper has the patience and willpower of a saint.

Eventually, we play “Wait for Me,” our signature single as Colt45 and I desperately want Mae to hear the words. The ones she wrote on the edge of a Cadillac in Amarillo, Texas. As we fade off on that one, we nod at one another with sheepish smiles. It’s been a long time.

“We have one more song to sing, although we didn’t practice it. We’re hoping this guy still has his memory of it,” Tommy teases as he points at me. “He should. He wrote it. This is ‘Sand’.”

My eyes leap to Tommy and then out at the crowd where my daughter’s mouth falls open. I scan the guests once more wishing for Mae to appear so I can sing this song for her. Instead, I sing it for myself, closing my eyes and visualizing the notes.