The Last Song(8)

“I didn’t know you could make windows.”

“Believe it or not, the artist who used to live here taught me how.”

“The guy who did the animals?”

“The same one.”

“And you knew him?”

Steve joined his son at the table. “When I was a kid, I’d sneak over here when I was supposed to be in Bible study. He made the stained-glass windows for most of the churches around here. See the picture on the wall?” Steve pointed to a small photograph of the Risen Christ tacked to one of the shelves, easy to miss in the chaos. “Hopefully, it’ll look just like that when it’s finished.”

“Awesome,” Jonah said, and Steve smiled. It was obviously Jonah’s new favorite word, and he wondered how many times he’d hear it this summer.

“Do you want to help?”

“Can I?”

“I was counting on it.” Steve gave him a gentle nudge. “I need a good assistant.”

“Is it hard?”

“I was your age when I started, so I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.”

Jonah gingerly picked up a piece of the glass and examined it, holding it up to the light, his expression serious. “I’m pretty sure I can handle it, too.”

Steve smiled. “Are you still going to church?” he asked.

“Yeah. But it’s not the same one we went to. It’s the one where Brian likes to go. And Ronnie doesn’t always come with us. She locks herself in her room and refuses to come out, but as soon as we leave, she goes over to Starbucks to hang out with her friends. It makes Mom furious.”

“That happens when kids become teenagers. They test their parents.”

Jonah put the glass back on the table. “I won’t,” he said. “I’m always going to be good. But I don’t like the new church very much. It’s boring. So I might not go to that one.”

“Fair enough.” He paused. “I hear you’re not playing soccer this fall.”

“I’m not very good at it.”

“So what? It’s fun, right?”

“Not when other kids make fun of you.”

“They make fun of you?”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Ah,” Steve said.

Jonah shuffled his feet, something obviously on his mind. “Ronnie didn’t read any of the letters you sent her, Dad. And she won’t play the piano anymore, either.”

“I know,” Steve answered.

“Mom says it’s because she has PMS.”

Steve almost choked but composed himself quickly. “Do you even know what that means?”

Jonah pushed his glasses up. “I’m not a little kid anymore. It means pissed-at-men syndrome.”

Steve laughed, ruffling Jonah’s hair. “How about we go find your sister? I think I saw her heading toward the festival.”

“Can we ride the Ferris wheel?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Awesome.”





3




Ronnie



The fair was crowded. Or rather, Ronnie corrected herself, the Wrightsville Beach Seafood Festival was crowded. As she paid for a soda from one of the concession stands, she could see cars parked bumper to bumper along both roads leading to the pier and even noted a few enterprising teenagers renting out their driveways near the action.

So far, though, the action was boring. She supposed she’d been hoping that the Ferris wheel was a permanent fixture and that the pier offered shops and stores like the boardwalk in Atlantic City. In other words, she hoped it would be the kind of place she could see herself hanging out in the summer. No such luck. The festival was temporarily located in the parking lot at the head of the pier, and it mostly resembled a small county fair. The rickety rides were part of a traveling carnival, and the parking lot was lined with overpriced game booths and greasy food concessions. The whole place was kind of… gross.

Not that anyone else seemed to share her opinion. The place was packed. Old and young, families, groups of middle-schoolers ogling one another. No matter which way she went, she always seemed to be fighting against the tide of bodies. Sweaty bodies. Big, sweaty bodies, two of whom were squashing her between them as the crowd came to an inexplicable stop. No doubt they’d had both the fried hot dog and fried Snickers bar she’d seen at the concession stand. She wrinkled her nose. So gross.

Spying an opening, she slipped away from the rides and carnival game booths and headed toward the pier. Fortunately, the crowd continued to thin as she moved down the pier, past booths offering homemade crafts for sale. Nothing she could ever imagine herself buying—who on earth would want a gnome constructed entirely from seashells? But obviously someone was buying the stuff or the booths wouldn’t exist.