Page 58 of The Christmas Arrangement

I look at Mom, confused. “I didn’t sign up for a solo.”

Griselda materializes beside us, grinning. “I did. Surprise! I picked something special. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

“Hope I know it.”

“Everybody knows it.”

The opening notes start as I take the mic, and I recognize it immediately as a Daniel Lovelace ballad. It’s one of his Christmas originals from an album that came out nine or ten ago. I used to play his songs on repeat when I was a teenager—drawn to the rasp in his throat, the way he bent notes. This one especially.

I start singing. The bar quiets—people actually stop talking to listen. It’s that kind of song. Quiet, aching. About missing home and not knowing where home is anymore.

Halfway through the first verse, I spot a man sitting alone in the back corner. Cowboy hat tipped low over his face, nursing a beer. He’s very still.

During the chorus, he sits up straighter. I can’t see his eyes under the hat brim, but I feel him watching.

Then suddenly he’s standing. Moving fast toward the exit. He knocks into someone’s table in his hurry, doesn’t stop to apologize, just pushes out into the night.

He leaves so abruptly I wonder if he’s having a medical emergency. I almost stop singing to check on him. But no one else seems concerned, so I push the worry aside and finish the song.

The applause is generous. Griselda whistles. I wave and scan the room.

Ivy’s pulling on her coat. I start toward her, but then I see my mom at the bar.

She’s pale. Her hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.

I change course, immediately worried. “Mom? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Her voice is barely audible. “You sang that beautifully, sweetheart.”

“Do you know the song?”

“No. Why would I?” But she won’t look at me. “I think I need some air.”

She’s out the door before I can offer to go with her.

I look around for Ivy, but her table is empty. She left without saying goodbye.

Frustrated, I push through the crowd and leave the club. Outside, I find Mom standing alone, arms wrapped around herself, staring up at the falling snow. She looks small. Vulnerable.

“Talk to me,” I say quietly.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Mom.”

She finally looks at me. Her mascara’s smudged. “That man. The one in the hat. Did you see him leave?”

“Yeah. During my song. Why?”

“I thought—” She shakes her head. “Never mind. It’s impossible.”

“What is?”

“Nothing.” Her voice breaks. “It’s late. I’m tired. Can you take me home? ”

“Of course.”

We start walking in silence to Ivy’s car. I want to push, to ask what’s wrong, but she looks so fragile. Like she might shatter if I press too hard.