The Last Song(57)

“Hey, Dad,” Jonah said.

While Ronnie had been outside, he’d forbidden Jonah from watching through the window. It seemed like the right thing to do, and Jonah had sensed it was best not to argue. He’d found SpongeBob on one of the channels and had been watching happily for the last fifteen minutes.

“Yes?”

Jonah stood up, his expression serious. “What has one eye, speaks French, and loves cookies before bedtime?”

Steve considered the question. “I have no idea.”

Jonah reached up and covered one eye with his hand. “Moi.”

Steve laughed as he rose from the couch, putting down his Bible. The kid made him laugh a lot. “Come on. I have some Oreos in the kitchen.” They headed that way.

“I think Ronnie and Will had a fight,” Jonah said, pulling up his pajamas.

“Is that his name?”

“Don’t worry. I checked him out.”

“Ah,” Steve said. “Why do you think they had a fight?”

“I could hear them. Will sounded mad.”

Steve frowned at him. “I thought you were watching cartoons.”

“I was. But I could still hear them,” Jonah said matter-of-factly.

“You shouldn’t listen in on other people’s conversations,” Steve chided.

“But sometimes they’re interesting.”

“It’s still wrong.”

“Mom tries to listen in on Ronnie when she’s talking on the phone. And she sneaks Ronnie’s phone when she’s in the shower and checks her text messages.”

“She does?” Steve tried not to sound too surprised.

“Yeah. How else would she keep track of her?”

“I don’t know… maybe they could talk,” he suggested.

“Yeah, right,” Jonah snorted. “Even Will can’t talk to her without arguing. She drives people crazy.”


When Steve was twelve, he had few friends. Between attending school and practicing the piano, he had little free time, and the person he most often found himself talking to was Pastor Harris.

By that point in his life, the piano had become an obsession, and Steve would often practice for four to six hours a day, lost in his own world of melody and composition. By that point, he’d won numerous local and state competitions. His mother had attended only the first one, and his father never made it to any. Instead, he would often find himself in the front seat of the car with Pastor Harris as they traveled to Raleigh or Charlotte or Atlanta or Washington, D.C. They spent long hours talking, and though Pastor Harris was a religious man and worked the blessings of Christ into most conversations, it always sounded as natural as someone from Chicago commenting on the endless futility of the Cubs during the pennant race.

Pastor Harris was a kind man who led a harried life. He took his calling seriously, and on most evenings he would tend to his flock, either at the hospital or at a funeral home or at the homes of congregation members he had come to consider friends. He performed weddings and baptisms on the weekends, he had fellowship on Wednesday nights, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays he worked with the choir. But every evening in the hour before dusk and no matter what the weather, he reserved for himself an hour to walk the beach alone. When he returned, Steve often found himself thinking that the hour of solitude had been just what the pastor needed. There was something settled and peaceful in his expression whenever he returned from those walks. Steve had always assumed that it was the pastor’s way of reclaiming a bit of solitude—until he’d asked him about it.

“No,” Pastor Harris had replied. “I don’t walk the beach to be alone, because that’s not possible. I walk and talk with God.”

“You mean pray?”

“No,” Pastor Harris said again. “I mean talk. Never forget that God is your friend. And like all friends, He longs to hear what’s been happening in your life. Good or bad, whether it’s been full of sorrow or anger, and even when you’re questioning why terrible things have to happen. So I talk with him.”

“What do you say?”

“What do you say to your friends?”

“I don’t have friends.” Steve gave a wry smile. “At least any that I can talk to.”

Pastor Harris laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You have me.” When he didn’t respond, Pastor Harris gave his shoulder a squeeze. “We talk in the same way that you and I do.”

“Does He answer?” Steve was skeptical.

“Always.”

“You hear Him?”

“Yes,” he said, “but not with my ears.” He put a hand to his chest. “This is where I hear the answers. This is where I feel His presence.”