“I miss Connor’s Irish accent,” Dylan said.
Brenda and Dad turned toward him with twin frowns, although Brenda’s was way more intimidating.
“What?” Dylan cast his gaze from Brenda to his father. “I love the way Jason sings, but he sounds like a good ole boy from Georgia when he talks.”
Brenda gave Dad one of those glances, where she rolled her eyes. Brenda didn’t like Dylan much either. They didn’t have a mutual admiration society going. He also resented the way Brenda made him feel whenever the three of them were together: Exactly like a fifth wheel, or a party pooper, or something like that. Maybe he should excuse himself now that Ella had finished her first set. The club was playing the game on the TV above the bar, which was across the room.
But before he could make an escape, Ella arrived at the table and took the empty chair to his right. If he got up the minute she sat down, he’d never hear the end of it. So he hunkered down, glanced at the score on his phone, and took a deep, calming breath.
Which was filled with Ella’s scent. Damn. The woman even smelled like a hippie. What was that aroma? Sandalwood? Patchouli?
She probably burned incense when no one was looking. Or used essential oils or some such thing. The aroma tickled his nose and not entirely in an I’m-about-to-sneeze way either. With her hair all tumbling down, and wearing that green velvet dress, which belonged on the set of Game of Thrones, she was attractive. If you had a thing for free-spirited musicians.
“You’re a better fiddler than Connor,” Dad said, sucking up to Brenda’s daughter. Who, in truth, was a pretty good fiddler, but Dylan didn’t want to admit it.
“Thanks,” Ella said in a high, piping voice, as she glanced at her mother. Something passed between them in that glance. A family in-joke he would probably never get.
The conversation stalled for a moment as Dad turned toward Brenda. The two of them appeared a little nervous now that Dylan thought about it. And right then, just before Brenda opened her mouth, an overwhelming sense of dread seized him.
It was as if a freight train were speeding right at him, the headlight cutting through the fog, but he couldn’t move himself out of its path.
“I guess it’s now or never,” Brenda said under her breath, then reached for Dad’s hand. She gave Ella and Dylan a forthright look out of her dark gray eyes.
“Jim and I have been talking things through, and we’ve decided to get married. We want both of you to plan the engagement party.”
* * *
Ella struggled to draw breath. She wasn’t surprised that Jim and Mom were tying the knot, but she was incredibly disappointed that Mom had chosen this moment to announce the happy news.
Typical behavior for Mom. Not that Ella wanted to be the center of attention, but hell, she’d been learning songs like mad, practicing until her fingers hurt for this fill-in gig with Sackweed, Connor O’Neal’s Irish band. It was supposed to be her night to shine. Her night to prove to Mom that she’d mastered her craft, even if she wasn’t playing a violin concerto or sonata written by some long-dead composer.
She’d been excited that Jim and his son would be coming to hear her play, but now it turned out that this gig had been a convenient excuse to get the “family” together. Not that the four of them felt like a family.
Ella snatched up a glass of water and took a big gulp. She never drank alcohol when she was performing because only a tiny bit of booze buzzed her head. But right now, sitting here with Jim’s uptight son beside her, she could have used a bracing shot of Jack. She put her water glass down and glanced at Dylan.
He’d certainly dressed for a yacht club party in khakis, white shirt, navy jacket, and bow tie. Come to think of it, she’d never seen Dylan wear any other kind of tie. To say he dressed conservatively was to understate the point by a mile.
He clearly wasn’t happy about Mom’s announcement. A muscle pulsed in his jaw, and his fingers closed into a white-knuckled fist.
What was his problem? Did the medical doctor resent being asked to plan a party? Or was it more sinister than that? She watched him watch her mother.
Oh, yeah. More sinister. Dylan didn’t like Mom.
Ella’s irritation with her mother evaporated, replaced with a strong need to defend her. How dare Dylan give her mother a judgmental look like that?
“So?” Jim asked, his bright blue eyes hopeful as he captured her gaze.
Damn. She didn’t want to disappoint Jim. She liked him. A lot. He was kind and generous, and he made Mom laugh. He was, in fact, the best thing that had ever happened to Mom.
“I think it’s great,” Ella said. “Congratulations, you guys.”
“You’re okay with this?” Mom asked.
“Of course I am. I’m so happy for you. Jim’s terrific.”
This earned her a smile. She’d actually made Mom happy. Wonder of wonders. Sometimes figuring out how to make Mom happy was a challenge.
Jim turned toward his son, who was staring down at his cell phone, more interested in the Clemson basketball game than anything else. The guy had been glued to his iPhone all night.
“What about you?” Jim asked.
Dylan looked up but didn’t make eye contact with anyone. “Are you guys sure about this?”
Wow. Nothing like blurting out your feelings without regard for anyone’s emotions. Was Dylan always like that? If so, he and Mom were going to have a rough relationship. Mom believed in the old saying that, if you didn’t have something nice to say, you said nothing at all. Of course, Mom had never applied that rule of comportment to herself when it came to critiquing Ella’s violin performances.
Jim laughed, pulling Ella from her sour thoughts.
