The Last Song(138)

Jonah, too. She knew her dad would want her to help Jonah move on, and since she’d been home, she’d spent a lot of time with him. Less than a week after they returned, Jonah was released from school for Christmas break, and she’d used the time to make special excursions with him: She’d taken him ice-skating at Rockefeller Center and brought him to the top of the Empire State Building; they’d visited the dinosaur exhibits at the Museum of Natural History, and she’d even spent most of one afternoon at FAO Schwarz. She’d always considered such things touristy and unbearably clichéd, but Jonah had enjoyed their outings, and surprisingly, so had she.

They spent quiet time together, too. She sat with him while he watched cartoons, drew pictures with him at the kitchen table, and once, at his request, she’d even camped out in his room, sleeping on the floor beside his bed. In those private moments, they sometimes reminisced about the summer and told stories about their dad, which they both found comforting.

Still, she knew Jonah was struggling in his own ten-year-old way. It seemed as though something specific was bothering him, and it came to a head one night when they’d gone for a walk after dinner one blustery night. An icy wind was blowing, and Ronnie had her hands tucked deep into her pockets when Jonah finally turned to her, peeking up from the depths of his parka hood.

“Is Mom sick?” he asked. “Like Dad was?”

The question was so surprising that it took her a moment to respond. She stopped, squatting down so she could be at eye level. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

“Because the two of you don’t fight anymore. Like when you stopped fighting with Dad.”

She could see the fear in his eyes and even, in a childlike way, could understand the logic of his thoughts. It was true, after all—she and her mom hadn’t argued once since she’d returned. “She’s fine. We just got tired of fighting, so we don’t do it anymore.”

He searched her face. “You promise?”

She pulled him close, holding him tight. “I promise.”

Her time with their dad had altered even her relationship with her hometown. It took some time to get accustomed to the city again. She wasn’t used to the relentless noise or the constant presence of other people; she had forgotten how the sidewalks were endlessly shadowed by the enormous buildings around her and the way people rushed everywhere, even in the narrow grocery store aisles. Nor did she feel much like socializing; when Kayla had called to see if she wanted to go out, she’d passed on the opportunity, and Kayla hadn’t called again. Though she supposed they would always share memories, it would be a different sort of friendship from this point on. But Ronnie was okay with that; between being with Jonah and practicing the piano, she had little time for anything else.

Because her dad’s piano had yet to be shipped back to the apartment, she took the subway to Juilliard and practiced there. She’d called on her first day back in New York and had spoken to the director. He’d been good friends with her dad and had apologized for missing the funeral. He sounded surprised—and yes, excited, she thought—to hear from her. When she told him that she was reconsidering applying to Juilliard, he arranged for an accelerated audition schedule and even helped expedite her application.

Only three weeks after arriving back in New York, she’d opened her audition with the song she’d composed with her dad. She was a little rusty in her classical technique—three weeks wasn’t much time to prepare for a high-level audition—but as she left the auditorium, she thought her dad would have been proud of her. Then again, she thought with a smile as she tucked his beloved score under her arm, he always had been.

Since the audition, she’d been playing three or four hours a day. The director had arranged to let her use the school’s practice rooms, and she was beginning to tinker with some fledgling compositions. She thought of her dad often while sitting in the practice rooms, the same rooms that he had once sat in. Occasionally, when the sun was setting, the rays would slice between the buildings around her, throwing long bars of light on the floor. And always when she saw the light, she would think back to his window at the church and the cascade of light she’d seen at the funeral.

She thought constantly about Will, of course.

Mostly, she dwelled on memories of their summer rather than their brief encounter outside the church. She hadn’t heard from him since the funeral, and as Christmas came and went, she began to lose hope that he would call. She remembered that he’d said something about spending the holidays overseas, but as each day elapsed without word from him, she vacillated between the certainty that he still loved her and the hopelessness of their situation. Perhaps it was best that he didn’t call, she told herself, for what was there really to say?