She waits a beat before she asks, “What about all those friends of yours? Wendy and Sophie and the one who draws the comics—”

“Mona.”

“Whatever. Shouldn’t it be one of them?”

“I want it to be you.”

“Just a sec’,” she says.

Her voice sounds a little funny, then I hear her put the phone down and blow her nose.

“Are you okay, Raylene?” I ask when she gets back on.

“Oh, sure,” she says, with the usual sardonic tone back in her voice. “It’s just allergies.”

You big liar, I think. You don’t have allergies any more than I do.

But I don’t call her on it.

“So, say you will,” I say instead.

“Of course I will. I can’t not show up at the wedding of the only member of my family that I actually like.”

“Careful,” I tease. “You’re being almost sentimental.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

“I love you, too,” I tell her.

I can almost see her do that little shake of her head she does when she’s feeling uncomfortable. Just mentioning any kind of intimacy always seems to puts her off-balance.

“I’m glad for you,” she says. “You really deserve some happiness after all you’ve been through this past couple of years.”

“Everybody deserves happiness—including you, Raylene.”

She surprises me. I know she carries a lot of regret over the things she’s done in the past—things she can’t ever change. She never talks about it, but I know she feels that there’s no way she can ever make up for what she’s done, that she doesn’t deserve happiness because of all the pain she’s brought into other people’s lives.

But instead of brushing me off, she says, “I guess that’s why I’ve got you in my life.”

I can’t help it. I start to cry.

“Oh, Jilly . . .”

“No, it’s good,” I tell her through my sniffles. “I’m . . . I’m actually happy. I’m so looking forward to seeing you.”

“Me, too,” she says.

I look out the window, at the strip of dark night sky I can see above the building across the street. I think:

Once upon a time . . .

Maybe fairy tales aren’t the only place you can find a happy ending.

If I was writing one for all of us it would just go, Once upon a time, they all lived happily ever after.

Grey

I hear the music long before I see the pub. Some jaunty set of jigs comes spilling out the door and dances down the block to meet me whether I want to hear it or not. I’ve never really cared much for this sort of thing in the past. Irish and Scottish dance tunes. Fiddles and accordions and high-pitched whistles. It’s all too busy and fast, with too many notes.