Alicia gave Bishop and Sheri some details of the ad plans for the upcoming Canadian tour and then she glanced at her watch and headed off.

“Better you’re here,” Bishop said to Kayleigh. “I told you, you should’ve come. Right at the beginning, I told you. Sheri’s got the room made up. For that guard too. Where is he?”

Kayleigh explained that Morgan had remained outside to check the property. He’d be in, in a moment.

“I did a picture for your room, Aunt Kayleigh. I’ll show you.”

Mary-Gordon gripped the handle of one of the wheelie suitcases and sped off down the hallway. Kayleigh and her sister smiled.

“In here! Here it is, Aunt Kayleigh!”

She’d seen this guest room before and it had been functional, stark. Now the bed had new blue gingham linens, frilly pillow cases, matching towels, candles, some cheap decorations from Michaels craft store, like geese in bonnets, and framed pictures of young Kayleigh and her family—photos that had been in shoe boxes when last seen, before Sheri. It was really a very comfortable space.

She’d be sure to thank her stepmother—who, of course, had done all this work while injured.

Kayleigh admired Mary-Gordon’s picture of the pony and set it prominently on the bedside table. “Can we go riding tomorrow?”

“We’ll have to see, Mary-Gordon. It’s a busy time. But we’ll have breakfast together.”

“Grandma Sheri and Mommy made pancakes. They were pretty good. Not the best but pretty good.”

Kayleigh laughed and watched the little girl help unpack the suitcases and, with an expectant gaze toward Kayleigh, put away each article of clothing or toiletry where directed. As the girl made decisions about how to stow everything, she was absorbed and seemed to get huge pleasure from the simple tasks.

A tap in Kayleigh’s mind, like a finger flicking a crystal glass. An idea for a song. “I Could Learn a Lot From You.” A parent to a child. How the mother or father has gotten some things wrong in life and it’s the child who rearranges the adult’s perspective. It would have a twist. The first three verses would make listeners believe that the child was singing to the parent; only in the last would it be revealed that the parent was narrating the story. A melody came almost immediately. She sat down and wrote out the words and music on improvised staff paper.

“What’re you doing, Aunt Kayleigh?”

“Writing a song. You inspired me.”

“What’s ‘inspired’?”

“I wrote it for you.”

“Oh, sing it to me!”

“It’s not finished but here’s part of it.” She sang and the girl stared raptly at her.

“That’s a very good song,” Mary-Gordon announced with a furrowed brow as if she were the artists and repertoire director of a major label, passing judgment on a young songwriter’s submission.

Kayleigh continued to unpack, pausing momentarily to look at a picture of the family from fifteen or so years ago: Bishop, Margaret, Suellyn and Kayleigh on the porch of the old family house in the hills an hour north of here.