They sat out on the porch dipping carrots, celery, chips, and anything else they found in Sewanee’s cabinets. They game-planned their next steps as the sun went down. Adaku asked her what she might do with the June French books and Sewanee told her some initial thoughts she’d had. “You know what Nick said to me after we recorded together in Venice? He said, ‘You’re a director.’”
“Really. Who would’ve thunk? I’ve only been saying that for a decade.”
“You have not,” Sewanee said like a third grader.
Adaku gave it right back. “Have, too! Have, too!” She dipped a carrot into the bowl of Birdie’s Delight and tossed it into her mouth. “I even said it a couple weeks ago! When we did that self-tape.”
“Nuh-unh!”
“Yeah-hunh!” She held a celery stalk up to Sewanee. “All seriousness: Can we sell this shit? Clooney has tequila; I could have dip.”
“Do you still have the recipe?”
They laughed and Sewanee’s phone dinged. The way her mouth went all smiley when she checked it prompted Adaku to say, “Let me guess.”
“He sent a cut of the final episode.”
“Ohh!” Adaku clapped. “Play it!”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
The absolute face Adaku threw her had Sewanee raising her hands in laughing surrender. She went inside, retrieved her Bluetooth speaker, and connected her phone. She sat back down next to Adaku, right where, three months ago, she’d listened to Brock’s voice for the first time.
“–THIS HAS BEEN Casanova, LLC, episode eight. Written by June French. Performed by Sarah Westholme and Brock McNight. Thank you for listening.”
Adaku jumped to her feet and applauded.
Sewanee’s face lit up. “Yeah?”
“Oh my God! Babe, that was–what did you do to him?! Send it to me immediately, I gotta listen again.” Sewanee laughed. “At home, by myself, in the–”
“And now,” Brock’s voice said from the speaker, “an original song written and performed by Nick Sullivan.” Adaku and Sewanee’s mirthful eyes collided. “It’s called ‘Swan Song.’”
Sewanee grabbed the phone and pressed pause. Startled, all playfulness gone, she looked back up at Adaku. “You heard that, too, right?”
“Oh, I heard it.” Adaku crossed her arms. “You gonna press play, or do I have to?”
Sewanee stilled. She’d known Nick was writing, but she hadn’t expected anything so soon. And she especially hadn’t expected to be the song.
At the look on her friend’s face, Adaku uncrossed her arms and stepped gently over to her. “Actually. I’m going to put the kettle on, make us some more tea.” She dropped a hand on Sewanee’s shoulder. Squeezed. “You go ahead.” She went inside and closed the sliding door firmly behind her.
Sewanee sat back, took a breath, and looked out over the railing at the last beads of light being washed from the sky. She pressed play.
A lone guitar. Slow. Rhythmic. Lulling. Like the silky drift of a gondola. An effortless chord progression, masterfully played.
Then a voice. Rich. Caramelized. The pace and cadence of a sensual lullaby. Lyrics, poetic yet plain. A stealth hit to the heart.
For all its simplicity, it was deceptively deep, as if she’d stepped boldly into shallows and found herself over her head.
Even as it beckoned her forward, she missed where she’d been. It was far from over, but it took every ounce of willpower to not stop it and start over.
It felt soulfully Irish and yearningly American. It felt like Nick.
And his voice. What did he mean he only sang “a bit”？ Good God.
Then it changed. A build began. A driving, forceful purpose accelerating toward some ethereal summit.
The tingle began in her scalp. It traveled down to her jaw. To her throat. Another tingle began in her toes and rose to her hips, her stomach. They met deep in the hollow of her chest. They mingled and vibrated together as he sang the song’s final note and his voice, to Sewanee, felt like a call to God. A prayer. An offering. A promise.
It felt like something to believe in.
Coda
Resolution doesn’t mean a happy ending–which I’ve been accused of. I don’t think I write happy endings. . . . I try never to end the play with two people in each other’s arms–unless it’s a musical.
–Neil Simon in The Paris Review
Of course there should be an HEA. I’m so sick of this question. It’s a Romance! That’s the deal we make with our readers. It’s misogyny, plain and simple. You don’t see anyone telling Mystery readers they’re silly and unserious for wanting to know by the end of the book who the murderer was. Fuck off.