Page 30 of Perfect Composition

“Mama?” Austyn’s voice is laced with agony.

I wrap my arms around her and hug her hard. “I’ll be here for Christmas. For two weeks.”

She buries her head against my shoulder, her lips at my ear. “And we’ll talk then?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you anything you want to know then.” After all, even with my promise, after knowing how close Beckett was, there’s no way I won’t have her armed with the knowledge of who her father is. Not anymore. I just want to have all of the information with me to substantiate my claims.

“Can you answer a question for me? Just one?”

I inhale sharply. But I whisper, “Yes.”

“Do I know him?”

Hesitantly, I nod. After all, who hasn’t heard of Beckett Miller?

Then I burst out laughing when she demands irately, “Tell me it wasn’t Mr. Stevens, my chemistry teacher. I always thought he perved on you.”

“Darling, he’s like Gramps’s age.”

“And who knew if he preyed on some of his students.”

I pull back and press a kiss to each cheek. “Trust me, it wasn’t him.”

“Well, now I can go on this trip happy.”

“And that’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted—your happiness.” My words are serious.

“I love you, Mama. Save travels.” She throws herself back into my arms.

“I love you too, baby. And same to you. I’ll meet you back here soon.” I hold her tightly, knowing it will all change soon.

Everything will the moment I loosen my arms and she steps away.

But finally I must when the driver clears his throat. I cup Austyn’s face and brush the apple of her cheek a final time. “Don’t forget to use that new iPad to call your mother on occasion. Or if you can’t manage that, an email will suffice.”

“I’ll even email Gramps to keep him off your back,” she vows.

We both laugh before I force myself to move over to the car. I slide into the back, and the door closes. Austyn immediately starts waving, as do I.

I keep up waving until I’m out of the Plaza’s circular drive.

Two months. The countdown starts now.

Putting my face in my hands, that’s when the tears start to fall in earnest.

Later that night, I let myself into my home on the outskirts of Kensington. Leaving my bags where they are, I immediately head into my office where I keep a biometric safe.

When Austyn was a teenager, I explained to her I chose to take an extra step to protect the privacy of my patients when I was working on their information at home since there were times I did have celebrity patients. This wasn’t a lie as I’ve treated members of varying Texas sports teams for hearing issues.

But since the safe was only able to be accessed with my fingerprints and passcode, it also gave me a place to store the information about Austyn’s birth father.

I don’t hesitate to open it now.

The brown accordion folder sits on the very top shelf. I don’t touch it—not yet. I don’t need to know what’s inside. My cheeks flushed the day my father presented me with its contents years ago—first a photo of Beckett and me kissing behind school. Letters from his lawyers to the Millers—at my bequest—after I found out I was pregnant. All sent back unopened, except the very first. That one was never received back. I would understand why when my father’s attorney produced a letter originating from the Millers demanding a monthly stipend to keep quiet about who the baby’s father is. Canceled checks they cashed every month once Beckett became a household name.

I haven’t looked inside it for years—not since the Millers died in a gas explosion when Austyn was five due to a faulty line in the trailer park. It was a tragic accident that impacted more than one family. While I didn’t feel much at their demise, other than relief that my father could stop paying them hush money about who my baby’s father was, I expected Beckett to return to attend his parents’ funeral. Stoically, I prepared myself and my family to deal with him then, but he never showed.

Slamming the safe shut, I move over to my file cabinet. I pull out a folder of news clippings from Dallas and Houston showing him fronting the stage to sold-out shows, but never here. So many clippings of Beckett himself—some good, some bad. All of them from the front page where they couldn’t be avoided when I saw them in line at the grocery store. Or when something particularly crazy hit the national news. He never even returned to the Austin area with his band, I think bitterly.