“Not that many,” he countered. He smiled at her.

She averted her eyes. “Thanks,” she said huskily.

Brenda watched them both with a secret glee that she was careful not to let them see.

Later they went into the living room. But instead of turning on the television, he went out of the room and came back with a big, spruce-topped acoustic guitar.

“Oh!” Clancey exclaimed.

Banks handed it to her. “It’s old,” he said.

“I can tell.”

“And you should hear him...” Brenda began, but her brother silenced her with a look and a quick shake of his head.

“This,” he told Brenda, “you’ve got to hear to believe.”

Clancey looked up at him.

“Come on,” he said softly, and settled into a rocking chair that was obviously his, with a tender smile.

Clancey took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Brenda was curious. Her brother must think that Clancey could play. A lot of people could, she reminded herself.

But then, Clancey positioned the guitar and began to play.

Brenda sat on the very edge of her seat, her lips parted with surprise, her eyes wide, as the exquisite melody flowed out from the guitar and all around the room. Tad grinned, watching her play.

She drew to a close and opened her eyes. Brenda was spellbound.

“How did you ever learn to play like that?” the other woman exclaimed. “That was beautiful!”

“My grandfather taught me,” she said. “I still have his guitar.”

She handed the guitar back to Banks with a smile. “It has a beautiful sound. Who plays it?”

He sat down on the edge of the big coffee table, tapped one toe and broke into a rendition of “San Antonio Rose” that had Clancey gasping.

Brenda chuckled. “Isn’t he great?” she teased. “He knew a man in the service who’d trained under Chet Atkins.”

“I thought that technique sounded familiar,” Clancey laughed. “You’re great!” she added.

He grinned at her and wound up the final riff.

“We need another guitar,” Brenda said. “So you two can do duets.”

“I can’t play country,” Clancey said sadly.

“And I can’t play classical,” Banks agreed.

“There’s always a way to find common ground,” Brenda pointed out.

“Not a bad idea. But it’s getting late and I have to go to work in the morning. We don’t keep late hours around here,” he added to Clancey.

“Neither do we,” she replied. “We’re both in bed by nine at night.”

Brenda didn’t say anything. But she was smiling secretively.

Clancey heard a sound. A long moan. A cry. She opened her eyes. She was wearing her sweatpants and a thick T-shirt to bed, as she always did. The sound was coming from the bedroom through the connecting door.

She turned on the lamp, got up and walked through to the smaller bedroom. She paused at Tad’s bedside. He was crying.