Nicholas Sparks - The Last Song

“I really don’t have time to talk right now,” she said, adjusting her tote bag.

“I just want to know where you were all day.”

“Nowhere. It’s not important.”

“It is important.”

“No, Dad,” she said, her voice firm. “It isn’t. And I’ve got things to do, okay?”

Jonah motioned to the door with his Pop-Tart. “What things? Where are you going now?”

This was exactly the conversation she’d hoped to avoid. “It’s none of your business.”

“How long are you going to be gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you be back for lunch or dinner?”

“I don’t know,” she huffed. “I’m leaving.”

Her dad started to play the piano again. Her third piece from Carnegie Hall. He might as well have been playing Mom’s CD.

“We’re going to fly kites later. Me and Dad, I mean.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, she swiveled toward her dad. “Would you just stop with that?” she snapped.

He stopped playing abruptly. “What?”

“The music you’re playing! You don’t think I recognize those pieces? I know what you’re doing, and I already told you I’m not going to play.”

“I believe you,” he said.

“Then why do you keep trying to get me to change my mind? Why is it that every time I see you, you’re sitting there pounding away?”

He seemed genuinely confused. “It has nothing to do with you,” he offered. “It just… makes me feel better.”

“Well, it makes me feel sick. Don’t you get that? I hate the piano. I hate that I had to play every single day! And I hate that I even have to see the damn thing anymore!”

Before her dad could say another word, she turned, snatched Jonah’s Pop-Tart out of his hand, and stormed out the door.

It took a couple of hours before she found Blaze in the same music store they’d visited yesterday, a couple of blocks from the pier. Ronnie hadn’t known what to expect when they’d first visited the store-it seemed kind of antiquated these days in the age of iPods and downloads-but Blaze had assured her it would be worth it, and it had been.

In addition to CDs, there were actual vinyl record albums-thousands of them, some of them most likely collector’s items, including an unopened copy of Abbey Road and a slew of old 45s simply hanging on the wall with signatures of people like Elvis Presley, Bob Marley, and Ritchie Valens. Ronnie was amazed that they weren’t under lock and key. They had to be valuable, but the guy who managed the place looked like a throwback to the sixties and seemed to know everyone. He had long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail that reached his waist, and his glasses were the same kind John Lennon had favored. He wore sandals and a Hawaiian shirt, and though he was old enough to be Ronnie’s grandfather, he knew more about music than anyone she’d ever met, including a lot of recent underground stuff she’d never even heard in New York. Along the back wall were headphones where customers could either listen to albums and CDs or download music onto their iPods. Peeking through the window this morning, she saw Blaze standing with one hand cupping a headphone to an ear, the other tapping the table in rhythm to whatever she was listening to.

In no way was she prepared for a day at the beach.

Ronnie took a deep breath and headed inside. As bad as it sounded-she didn’t think Blaze should be getting drunk in the first place-she kind of hoped that Blaze had been so out of it that she’d forgotten what happened. Or even better, that she had been sober enough to know that Ronnie had no interest in Marcus.

As soon as she started down the aisle full of CDs, Ronnie sensed that Blaze had been expecting her. She turned down the volume on the headphones, though she didn’t remove them from her ears, and turned around. Ronnie could still hear the music, something loud and angry she didn’t recognize. Blaze gathered up the CDs.

“I thought we were friends,” she started.

“We are,” Ronnie insisted. “And I’ve been looking all over for you because I didn’t want you to have the wrong idea about what went on last night.”

Blaze’s expression was icy. “You mean about asking Marcus to go for a walk with you?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Ronnie pleaded. “I didn’t ask him. I don’t know what his game was…”

“His game? His game?” Blaze threw down the headphones. “I saw the way you were staring at him! I heard what you said!”

“But I didn’t say it! I didn’t ask him to walk anywhere-”

“You tried to kiss him!”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t try to kiss him…”

Blaze took a step forward. “He told me!”

“Then he’s lying!” Ronnie snapped, holding her ground. “There’s something seriously wrong with that guy.”

“No… no… don’t even go there…”

“He lied to you. I wouldn’t kiss him. I don’t even like him. The only reason I was there was because you insisted that we go.”

For a long moment, Blaze didn’t say anything. Ronnie wondered if she was finally getting through to her.

“Whatever,” Blaze said, her tone making her meaning perfectly clear.

She pushed past Ronnie, jostling her as she headed toward the door. Ronnie watched her go, unsure whether she was hurt or angry at the way Blaze had just acted before deciding it was a bit of both. Through the window, she saw Blaze storm off.

So much for trying to make things better.

Ronnie wasn’t sure what to do next: She didn’t want to go to the beach, but she didn’t want to go home, either. She didn’t have access to a car, and she knew absolutely no one. Which meant… what? Maybe she’d end up spending the summer on some bench where she’d feed the pigeons like some of the weirder denizens of Central Park. Maybe she’d end up naming them…

At the exit, her thoughts were brought to a halt by the sudden blaring of an alarm, and she glanced over her shoulder, first in curiosity and then in confusion as she realized what was happening. There was only one way in and out of the store.

The next thing she knew, the ponytailed man was rushing toward her.

She didn’t try to run because she knew she’d done nothing wrong; when the ponytailed man asked for her bag, she saw no reason not to give it to him. Obviously, a mistake had been made, and it wasn’t until the man removed two CDs and half a dozen of the signed 45s from her tote bag that she realized she’d been right about Blaze expecting Ronnie to find her. The CDs were the ones that Blaze had been holding, and Blaze had taken down the 45s from the wall. In shock, she began to understand that Blaze had planned it all along.

Suddenly dizzy, she barely heard the manager tell her that the police were already on their way.

After buying the materials he needed, primarily two-by-fours and sheets of plywood, Steve and Jonah spent the morning closing off the alcove. It wasn’t pretty-his father would have been mortified-but Steve thought it would do. He knew the cottage would eventually be demolished; if anything, the land was worth more without it. The bungalow was flanked by three-story minimansions, and Steve was certain those neighbors considered the place an eyesore that depressed their own property values.

Steve hammered in a nail, hung the photograph of Ronnie and Jonah he’d removed from the alcove, and took a step back to examine his handiwork.

“What do you think?” he asked Jonah.

Jonah wrinkled his nose. “It looks like we built an ugly plywood wall and hung a picture on it. And you can’t play the piano anymore, either.”

“I know.”

Jonah tilted his head from side to side. “I think it’s crooked, too. It kind of bends in and out.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“You need glasses, Dad. And I still don’t see why you wanted to put it up in the first place.”

“Ronnie said she didn’t want to see the piano.”

“So?”

“There’s no place to hide the piano, so I put a wall up instead. Now she doesn’t have to see it.”

“Oh,” Jonah said, thinking. “You know, I really don’t like having to do homework. In fact, I don’t even like to see it piled on my desk.”

“It’s summer. You don’t have any homework.”

“I’m just saying that maybe I should build a wall around the desk in my room.”

Steve suppressed a laugh. “You might have to talk to your mom about that.”

“Or you could.”

Steve gave in to a chuckle. “You hungry yet?”

“You said we were going to go kite flying.”

“We will. I just want to know if you want lunch.”

“I think I’d rather have some ice cream.”

“I don’t think so.”

“A cookie?” Jonah sounded hopeful.

“How about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

“Okay. But then we’re going to fly the kite, right?”

“Yes.”

“All afternoon?”

“As long as you want.”

“Okay. I’ll have a sandwich. But you have to have one, too.”

Steve smiled, putting his arm on Jonah’s shoulder. “Deal.” They headed toward the kitchen.

“You know, the living room is a whole lot smaller now,” Jonah observed.

“I know.”

“And the wall is crooked.”

“I know.”

“And it doesn’t match the other walls.”

“What’s your point?”

Jonah’s face was serious. “I just want to make sure you’re not going crazy.”

It was perfect kite-flying weather. Steve sat on a dune two houses down from his own, watching the kite zigzag across the sky. Jonah, full of energy as usual, ran up and down the beach. Steve watched him with pride, amazed to recall that when he’d done the same thing as a child, neither of his parents had ever joined him.

They weren’t bad people. He knew that. They never abused him, he never went hungry, they never argued in his presence. He visited the dentist and doctor once or twice a year, there was always plenty to eat, and he always had a jacket on cold winter mornings and a nickel in his pocket so he could buy milk at school. But if his father was stoic, his mother wasn’t all that different, and he supposed that was the reason they’d stayed married as long as they had. She was originally from Romania; his father had met her while stationed in Germany. She spoke little English when they were married and never questioned the culture in which she’d been raised. She cooked and cleaned and washed the clothes; in the afternoons, she worked part-time as a seamstress. By the end of her life, she’d learned passable English, enough to navigate the bank and grocery store, but even then her accent was heavy enough that it was sometimes difficult for others to understand her.