Now though, I was on the dock with Henry in the sunshine, and that seemed very far away. “We’ll see if these do the trick,” I said, setting the cookies aside. When they were out of the way, I leaned over to kiss him again. One of the best things about kissing Henry was that it could make the rest of the world—like my dad, and what was happening to him—go away for a little while. It never totally disappeared, but like a TV you could hear in the next room, I was able to think about it less when Henry’s lips were on mine and his arms were around me.
“So,” Henry said. It was a while later, and we were taking a break. We were stretched out together, and I was lying in what I had already come to think of as my spot—there was just a place where I seemed to fit perfectly. His arm was around my shoulders, and my head resting on his chest, one of my legs thrown over his, our feet tangled together. “Do you have any plans for the Fourth?”
I hadn’t been expecting this question, and I propped myself up to look at him. “I think we’re watching the fireworks,” I said. “Out here, probably.” There was always a fireworks display over the lake, and we’d usually gathered on the dock, as a family, to watch it.
“Great,” he said. “Well, don’t make any plans for afterward, okay? I’ve got a surprise.”
I propped myself up even farther, looking into his eyes. “A surprise?” I asked, not quite able to keep the excitement out of my voice. “What is it?”
“You should get Warren to tell you the definition of the word surprise,” he said as I felt myself smile. “It involves not revealing what something is.”
We lay there together for a little longer, watching the sun over the lake as it finally started to go down, and twilight started to fall all around us, the fireflies starting to wink in the grass. When I felt the first mosquito bite me, I slapped it away and sat up, checking the time, and realizing that I should probably head in for dinner.
“Time to go?” Henry asked, and I nodded, standing up and extending a hand to help him up. He took it, but didn’t really exert much pull on it as he stood and I zipped up a sweatshirt over my bikini. I gathered up my towel, sunglasses, and desserts, and we walked across the dock together, holding hands.
When we reached the back of my house, he squeezed my hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
“See you then,” I said, feeling how wide I was smiling, but knowing I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. He leaned down and kissed me, and I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him back.
“Ugh.” We broke apart, and I turned to see Davy standing a few feet in front of us, Murphy at his feet. Davy made a face. “That’s disgusting.”
“You won’t always think so,” Henry assured him. “Were you walking the dog again?”
Davy nodded and held out the leash to me reluctantly. Ever since my father had given him the go-ahead to walk the dog, Davy had taken his responsibilities very seriously, coming over to walk the dog several times a day. It had gotten so that Murphy was exhausted by early evening, falling asleep on my dad’s lap immediately after dinner.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the leash from him. Davy nodded and I smiled at Henry. “See you,” I said.
“Bye,” he said, smiling back, causing Davy to groan. Henry walked toward his house, with Davy running to catch up with him, already talking about something.
“And how was your day?” I asked as I picked up the dog, who looked utterly wiped out. I held Murphy, who seemed thrilled to get a little bit of a break, under my arm and scratched his ears as I headed up toward the house. “Did you do great things?”
The first thing I noticed as I headed up the porch steps was that there was music playing. And not one of my mother’s ballets or her classical music—old-school rock. I dropped the dog on the porch, unhooked his leash, and opened the screen door. Murphy trotted inside, making a beeline for his water dish; a second later I could hear the sound of him slurping.
I stepped inside the house, and the music got even louder. It sounded vaguely familiar, like maybe I’d heard it on an oldies station or in a movie soundtrack. I dropped the cookies and cupcake on the kitchen counter and continued on inside, noticing that the house seemed to be fairly empty, and turning some lights on as I went. I found the source of the music and my dad at the same time. He was sitting on the ground in the TV room, an old turntable in front of him and stacks of records surrounding him.
“Hi,” I said, turning on the light, and making us both wince slightly as the room lit up. He was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, but I noticed that his hair was parted as sharply as ever.
“Hi, kid,” he said, starting to cough. After it had passed, he cleared his throat and continued. “What’s the news?”
“No news,” I said, smiling at him. I looked around at the records, and at the one spinning on the turntable. I had to say, I liked this better than the opera. I knelt down and picked up one of the sleeves—it was for someone named Charlie Rich. The album art—and his beard—both looked very seventies. “What is all this?”
He smiled at me and turned down the volume of a song about California. “I was just puttering around the workshop,” he said, “and I found my old record player and albums. And I was just going to go through them, but then I started listening to them….” His voice trailed off as he picked up one of the albums and turned it over.
“So who is this?” I asked, as the song ended and the next one began, slower and softer this time.
“This,” my dad said, reaching behind him and wincing, picking up the album cover and handing it to me, “is Jackson Browne.”
“Did you used to listen to him?” I asked as I looked down at the album cover art, a car sitting under a single streetlight.
“All the time,” my dad said, smiling faintly, as though remembering it. “It drove my father crazy.”
“So turn it up,” I said, sitting next to him and leaning back against the couch leg.
My dad cleared his throat, then pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and coughed into it. He folded it carefully and replaced it. “You don’t have to listen to this,” he said, giving me a smile. “I know it’s not exactly your style.”
“I like it,” I protested. And I did—the lyrics seemed almost like real poetry, layered with meaning in a way that the Bentley Boys’ songs certainly weren’t. “Tell me about this song.”