“Tell her to hurry back for the Ceili Festival!” the woman said, gathering up her things.

“I will,” her mother said.

Jessica's heart fell like a stone. Looking over at her mother again, she saw the bright sheen of tears in her eyes. It pierced Jessica to know how much her mother wanted Aunt Sam to hurry back. Sitting by the big display of needlepoint yarn, Jessica ducked her head, to hide her own eyes.

“Honey?” her mother asked, after the woman had gone. “You're being so quiet.”

“The lady asked if the music poured out of you.”

“I know.”

“It used to,” Jessica said.

“The music never leaves,” her mother said. “Once you have it, you can't lose it.”

Jessica's stomach ached. She wanted to believe that that was true. When she was younger, and so sad because her father had died, her aunt would come up from Baltimore to visit. She and her mother would talk softly, and their voices alone were music to Jessica. Later, after supper, they would take out their fiddles, and they would start to play. They had been doing it since they were girls, as young as Jessica. She would listen to the music—incredible, beautiful enough to destroy the pain of missing her father.

“Then why—” Jessica started to ask now.

“Why what, Jess?”

“Why do you never play it?” Jessica asked.

“I guess I need Sam for that.”

Jessica nodded. She clasped her hands tight, so her mother wouldn't see the waves of emotion passing through her. Having taken recorder lessons in school, she had been secretly practicing—so her mother would have someone to play with in case Aunt Sam really didn't come back.

Just then, another musician walked in, and Jessica thought her mother seemed relieved to stop talking about everything.

“Mom, can I e-mail Rose?” Jessica asked.

“Sure, honey,” her mother said. The new customer was friendly, and Jessica's mother asked about her guitar. The woman seemed happy to show her, so she opened the case. Jessica's mother seemed lost in the workmanship of the woman's Gibson guitar—Emmylou Harris edition.

“I went straight to the factory in Memphis to get it,” the woman said, playing a few notes.

Jessica concentrated on the computer screen. No new e-mails. She tapped out a quick hello to her best friend, Rose: “I miss you. The summer music festival is starting, and my aunt will be here soon. . . .” She has to be, Jessica thought, hitting “Send.”

Glancing up at her mother, she furtively went into the “Old Mail” folder. There were her aunt's e-mails. Her mother always saved them, as if they were precious, personal notes, instead of group e-mails sent out to a huge number of people. Jessica read one from last month—“Hola from Peru”:

Hola everyone,

Made it to Peru safely! I'm in Iquitos, along the Amazonia—it's hot and humid and raining and colorful and poor and lively. . . .