Bruno nodded. “Always said you were up in the big city, chasing your dreams. That you could write words that could wake the dead.”
“He said that?”
“Absolutely.”
I felt heat nibble at my cheeks. Of course Dad would say something like that. He didn’t even know that I ghostwrote—that those books were sold in airport bookstores and at grocery store checkout counters— And . . . now I couldn’t tell him at all.
Ever.
He paused. “Xavier swore me not to tell anyone, but I gotta know if it’s true that—”
“Bruno . . . ,” the bartender warned.
I frowned. “Know if what’s true?”
Bruno instead said, “He was so proud of you, Miss Day. So fuckin’ proud he cried. He knew you were chasing your dream, like Carver and Alice, and he was so damn proud of all you kids.”
But he never knew the full story. I never told him that I pulled inspiration from his and Mom’s romance, that I memorized all of the stories they told me of their grandparents, all the love stories they had passed down from generation to generation. I had been so caught up with being the exception to the rule—the one family member who would never have a glorious love story—that I’d forgotten why I wrote about love.
Because a gray-haired woman in an oversized sweater asked me to, yes, but also because I wanted to. Because I believed in it, once upon a time.
“Did I upset you?” Bruno asked, and I realized I hadn’t touched my lemonade.
I took a deep sip and shook my head. “No,” I replied, and winced because my voice was anything but convincing. “I actually came to ask you a question about Dad. Would you be available Thursday around three?”
“I—I mean, I’d have to check with Perez—”
“Yes,” Perez replied. “He is.”
“I guess I am?”
“Then would you do the honors of singing at my father’s funeral? I’ll pay you, of course—is there a special rate you have for . . . strange venues?”
Bruno blinked at me. Once. Twice. Then he leaned forward and asked, “Lemme get this straight: You want me to sing at your father’s funeral.”
“Yes. In that.” And I pointed to the poster.
His bushy black eyebrows shot up. “Huh.”
“I know it’s strange but—”
“Hell yeah.”
That took me back. “And your going rate?”
The man grinned, and finally I noticed that his left canine was gold plated. “Miss Day, Elvistoo honors the dead for free.”
17
Dead Hour
I CURLED MY fingers around the wrought iron gate to the cemetery. It was already locked—I forgot that it closed most evenings at 6 p.m.—and I didn’t really want to walk the graveyard tonight, but I didn’t know where else to go. There was a storm rolling in. Lightning lit the bulbous clouds in the distance, and there was a distinct smell in the air.
Damp and fresh, like clean laundry hung out to dry.
Thunder rumbled across the hills of the cemetery.
“A bit early for one of those moonwalks, isn’t it?” asked a familiar voice to my left. I glanced over, and there was Ben, his hands in his pockets, looking a little worse for wear. His tie was a little askew, the top button of his shirt undone, exposing enough of his collar and a necklace hanging there—with a ring on it.
A golden wedding ring.