“Not once you know her,” Ginger had said. She looks around the dry cleaning shop, and it is all so her: neat and sterile with precise notes on the dressing room doors about garment fitting instructions, and a sign by the cash register about returned checks. Behind the counter, instructions for the employees about turning lights off and putting fifties and hundreds in the safe. Oh, Mrs. Crowley. Such a time capsule of a woman, but still so modern.
Ginger used to love to sit back and watch her in action: barking at Mr. Crowley about how long to leave the meat on the grill （he’d just raise his eyebrows and ignore her, chuckling）; clearing the dining room table after a big meal in mere seconds, not letting anyone help, or ordering a new gadget from a home shopping channel and insisting it would improve their lives （a toothpaste dispenser, a cordless phone with an intercom, a posture perfect desk chair）。 Ginger looks at the sweater over one of the chairs in the back and knows it belongs to Mrs. Crowley: a lilac color. She can just see her slipping it on and off throughout the day. What a gutsy woman, starting up a business from scratch that she knew nothing about after her husband died. Where did she find the nerve? Ginger hugs her arms to herself and wishes Mrs. Crowley would drop by right now. She misses her as much as she misses Luke, doesn’t she? The seamstress then comes back to the counter, smiles politely, scoops up all the dresses, and lays them together in a pile that looks like a green rowboat in front of her. “Back to work,” she says.
“Thanks for your help,” Ginger says, and waves.
Out in the parking lot, the girls hover around their cars. The sky is clear and blue, and the occasional leaf slowly zigzags to the ground. At the intersection only one or two cars get by before the light turns red. Ginger hands the toy crown to Cameron after Suzette and her sister drive off. “So about one o’clock tomorrow to set up?”
“I’ll bring the champagne,” Cameron says.
Cecilia buffs out a smudge on the door of her RAV4. “Have paisley dreams, ladies. And we’ve got to talk to Carrie about bachelorette weekend.”
Ginger nods. She opens the door to her mother’s van. After this she will pick up the heartworm pills for Thunder, a six-month supply with stickers her parents can put on the calendar. She should check in with Johnny. She should. But the idea makes her feel uneasy. She breathes. Being back in the old neighborhood, so near the park where Luke sang that summer night, with the small Italian restaurant where they would sit at the lopsided table and drink cheap wine, with Luke’s parents’ house just a few blocks away and the bike trail where they would ride their matching Trek bikes to the lake with a picnic in Luke’s backpack, she can’t think about Johnny.
She looks at the ring he gave her. The alternating emeralds and diamonds. “Must have cost a pretty penny,” her mother said when she saw it.
“I guess,” Ginger said （even though she knew exactly how much, which was more than she ever wanted a piece of jewelry she wore to cost）。
She should call Johnny, but she turns the radio on as she pulls out of the parking lot. Madonna is singing “Like a Prayer,” and she gets lost in the words as she drives past the string of factories and then Woodsen Park. The stage is empty, and she can still imagine Luke standing there. Twelve years ago. Twelve. She remembers when she could subtract twelve years from her age, and it would take her back to being in elementary school. Now twelve years takes her to still being an adult. Luke onstage. Luke. His guys in the background on drums and bass, Luke’s voice the great connector between them. She swore some women cried. Even the men mouthed the words. Yes to looooove you. And it wasn’t just at the park. At the small clubs, at the backyard parties, when Luke sang, a stillness came over the crowd. He could switch from Sinatra to Elton John to Bon Jovi, and he made it his own. He was that good. Did he know he was that good? Did she ever tell him he was better than any guy on the radio? She loved him before he sang, but, God, the power of his voice made it impossible not to crumble.
It wasn’t just his voice. His voice was rock solid. But he brought soul to every song. She hates the word soul, it makes her uncomfortable, but it is the only word for Luke’s vulnerability, the understanding he seemed to give the sad lyrics, the happy ones.
Does he still sing? She hopes so. But wouldn’t his sister post a picture of him at a concert every so often on Facebook? Wouldn’t Ginger see his name anywhere when she searched it? Luke Crowley. Luke and the Killers. Nothing. If he doesn’t sing, what does he do? What else could Luke do? She should have asked him, but she sensed something was off. She knew the question wouldn’t make him happy. How did she still understand him so well?