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records, but they’re mostly all classical.”

“This is vinyl?” Cassia knew that was the cool thing now,

that everyone liked to listen to vinyl again, but she’d never had

any of her own.

“It is. If you listen, you can hear the crackle. I just have a

cheap turntable and speakers. When I moved here, someone

was having a garage sale. I had a lot of vinyl, but no turntable.

I’ve always been partial to it. I don’t know why. I hardly ever

got a chance to listen to them. Mostly I just kept them in crates

in storage. I travelled too much to take anything with me, but

there was a tiny apartment in Paris and some storage units

there that got paid for every month. I guess that was my home

base.”

“Paris?” Cassia’s mouth dropped. “Wow. And you ended up

here?”

Adalynn had a special talent for not taking things too

seriously, including herself or the questions Cassia asked. “I

liked the turret,” she said. She leaned against the counter and

turned her eyes down to the soapy water.

As the music rose to its crescendo, Cassia could hear the

slight static and whine of the record player. She liked that too.

How it wasn’t perfect. Maybe that’s what everyone meant

when they said that vinyl was more authentic.

“I like the turret too. And I guess you couldn’t beat the

price. Or the location. I mean, maybe not the fact that it’s

South Carolina and not Paris, but you have a massive yard,

and the privacy is nice. Then again, this is coming from

someone who used to live in New York. I guess I can

understand why you might not have wanted to stay in Paris,

even if it’s Paris.”