All of Jamie’s family knew about his birthday list—Jamie had practically shouted it from the rooftops when he’d came up with the idea. But while his family knew about the list, none of them knew I was working to finish it in Jamie’s place.
I hadn’t mentioned it to Kyle and Debbie because I knew they wouldn’t react well. And I hadn’t mentioned it to Jimmy because I didn’t want to make him sad. In the last seven years, he’d lost his wife to cancer, then his grandson, and then both his sisters. He’d had enough sadness, so for now, the birthday list—and my real motivations for taking ukulele lessons—was something I was keeping to myself.
“Did Jamie ever tell you why he wanted to learn?”
I shook my head. “No. Do you know why?”
“It was for Debbie.” Jimmy smiled. “She knew how to play and had always wanted to teach Jamie. Except in sixth grade, he decided on the drums instead so he could be in that awful garage band. Did he ever tell you his band’s name?”
I laughed. “The Roach Eaters.”
“Idiots,” Jimmy mumbled with a grin. “I’m glad that was just a phase. Anyway, he played the drums but promised Debbie he’d learn the ukulele someday, and you know how he was about his mama.”
“She hung the moon,” we said in unison.
Jamie had doted on Debbie, and except for me, his mother had been his favorite person in the world. A promise made to her was one only his death could break.
“Maybe next week you can bring your ukulele along and show me what you’ve learned.”
“You bet.” I nodded. “Now, before I have to head out, let’s discuss this hair situation. How long, exactly, will you be pink?”
Jimmy grinned and stood, walking over to a grocery bag by the television. The plastic crinkled as he fished out a can of shaving cream and pack of disposable Bic razors. “However long it takes for you to shave my head.”
“What?” My eyes got wide. “That’s crazy! I’m not shaving your head. Just have it bleached back to white.”
“And spend another thirty bucks? No way. This only cost me six.” The gleam in his eye turned diabolical. “That cheating bastard thinks he’s beaten me. Just wait until I show up in the dining hall tonight looking like Mr. Clean. That will show him. He’s got a crush on Millie Turner, but I have it on good authority she’s got a thing for bald guys. Let’s see his face when I swoop in and take his girl.”
“Jimmy, please don’t get into a fight with this guy and get kicked out of The Rainbow. I’m begging you.”
He grinned. “For Millie Turner, it might be worth it.”
That grin was so familiar, I had to smile back. Jamie had inherited a lot from his grandfather. His grin. His romantic side. His wild and free spirit.
And a grin that was impossible for me to deny.
“Fine. Let’s do this.” I stood from the couch and followed Jimmy into the kitchenette. Then I spent the next twenty minutes helping a seventy-two-year-old shave his head and thinking the entire time that Jamie would have loved this.
And he would have loved learning the ukulele from his mom.
“It’s official. I have no musical talent.”
Two hours after I’d left Jimmy’s apartment, any hope of becoming a ukulele virtuoso was lost.
“Oh, I disagree.” Mia smiled. “You just need some practice. Let’s give that last chord one more try.”
“Okay.” I picked up the ukulele off my lap and carefully placed my fingers.
She adjusted my index finger. “Move this one here.”
I strummed the strings, and for the first time, the sound that came from my instrument was actually melodic. My eyes shot up to Mia’s as a huge smile spread on my face. “I did it!”
“See? No musical talent,” she scoffed. “Practice makes progress.”
I liked that. Progress. Not perfect.
I strummed the strings again, then set down the instrument, wanting to end my lesson on a good note. “Thank you so much, Mia.”
“You’re welcome. Let me get you a few things. Sit tight.” She set down her own ukulele and stood, disappearing into the back room.
My eyes wandered over the small, square space. Three guitars hung on the far wall, and the two perched in the corner were covered in bright patterned scarves. At my side was a black upright piano—the top covered with colorful frames and pictures of happy students. The floral couch I was sitting on took up the other free wall, leaving just enough space for the wooden chair Mia had positioned in the middle of the room so she could sit across from me during our lesson.
Mia’s music studio was as eclectic as its owner.
I’d found Mia Crane through Google. She’d had so many five-star reviews for her guitar lessons I hadn’t hesitated to ask if she’d be my ukulele instructor, and when I’d pulled up to her house an hour ago, I’d known I’d made the right choice.
Mia had been waiting for me to arrive, standing barefoot on her front porch. One look at her carefree smile and the nerves I’d had about these lessons had vanished. She’d wrapped me in a hug instead of a handshake, then led me to her music studio—this small, cute building she’d built next to her home.
“Okay, pretty Poppy.” Her singsong voice preceded her as she came out from the back.
Pretty Poppy. My family had called me that as a child too.
The light scent of eucalyptus and cucumber lotion returned with Mia. Her long brown hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and the number of bangles strung up one arm was nearly as impressive as her enormous hoop earrings.
“You can take that ukulele home.” She set down a black case on the couch. “Here is a case and I included some notes on what to practice this week.”
“Thank you.” I stood and smoothed down my black shift dress. “I really appreciate you taking me as a student.” She’d
