I sat on the hard bench next to him, and for a long time he played and I just listened. I'd missed the sound of someone else making music. Sometimes, when you're a musician, it's so nice to just listen. It's like my mom says about cooking. She loves to cook, but when someone else makes the food, even if it's just an egg sandwich, it tastes so much better because she didn't have to do it herself.

After a while, he stopped. "Do you play piano too?" he asked.

"Not really," I said. "Mom gave me lessons when I was little, but I never got that excited about it. Katie is the one who can really play."

He nodded. "Yes . . . I remember from when we visited. She was just a little girl, but she had a spark."

"Yep."

"Like you with the fiddle," he said, smiling.

"Thanks."

We sat there for a while longer. He played something jazzy, and we let the notes float around us. "I quit the piano when your grandmother had her stroke," he said. "It was like she'd been cheated out of happiness, and I thought I shouldn't have any pleasure if she couldn't. I probably should've played more more instead of stopping. It would've helped me get through it." instead of stopping. It would've helped me get through it."

"Music makes me feel better when I'm missing home," I agreed.

"You practicing every morning made me realize I was only hurting myself," he said.

I smiled. "Can we play together?"

"Sure. But right now, let's go upstairs and find something to eat."

"We just had lunch," I said, b.u.mping his shoulder and laughing. "Are you seriously hungry?"

"I'm awake, aren't I?" he said.

We got up, and he picked up the candle. In the fluttering light I noticed a long granite-topped bar with a mirror behind it and bottle after bottle of liquor. My heart leapt at the sight.

"Hey! We could sell all that alcohol," I told Grandpa.

"Empty," he said.

I sighed. "Figures."

We went upstairs together, and in the dining room we stopped, dazed and a little blinded by the daylight. All of a sudden, everyone jumped out from behind the furniture. "Happy birthday!" they all yelled, including Grandpa.

"You were playing music just to get me out of the way!" I said when he hugged me.

He laughed. "Worked, didn't it? I'm like the pied piper, only with a piano."

Everyone swept me up into hug after hug. First Grandma, then Doug, the kids, and, surprisingly, Spill! He touched me kind of awkwardly, like he wasn't sure if he should or not and then we both stepped back, embarra.s.sed, but smiling.

"Come outside!" Brandy squealed, grabbing my hand and pulling me behind her. A pink cake covered with luscious-looking blackberries sat melting in the heat. Fresh flowers drooped in small jars placed sporadically around the deck.

"We weren't really asleep!" Brandy shouted.

"We pretended," Michael added.

"We decorated all by ourselves," Brandy said.

"It's beautiful," I gushed.

I knelt and squeezed their small bodies to me. They'd put on some weight, and I could barely lift Brandy anymore. Michael was still as light as a puppy, though.

"Spill brought the cake," Brandy said. "Can we eat it?"

"I'm with Brandy," Spill said. "Let's eat."

"Get Jewels first and play 'Happy Birthday' so we can sing," Grandpa suggested.

"I have to play 'Happy Birthday' to myself?"

"Well, who else is going to do it?"

"You are! On the piano."

"Can't haul the piano upstairs, though, can we? Get your fiddle, and we'll play later."

I ran upstairs and got Jewels. Everyone sang and Grandma cut the cake into eight slices. In about thirty seconds we all sat staring at our empty plates.

"For Molleeee," Grandma said, pointing at the last piece.

Grandpa had disappeared right after we'd eaten, and now he came out through the house wheeling a shiny green mountain bike. "Happy birthday, Molly." His face was glowing.

"Oh, my G.o.d! Where did you get that? I thought you sold everything."

"I had it in the attic. I'd totally forgotten about it until the other day. It was your grandma's."

I ran my hands over the seat, inspected the tires, and squeezed the brake levers. "It looks brand new."

"Yeah, I think she rode it once about twenty years ago," he said, laughing. Grandma thumped him on the arm, but she was smiling too.

"Spill got it some new tires," he said.

I looked at Spill, pleased. So Grandpa seemed okay with his job. . . . Maybe who Spill worked for didn't really matter. If Grandpa thought it was all right, then I could probably live with it too.

Grandpa told me to take the bike for a spin, but I wanted more music.

"I'll try it later," I said. "Now it's time for the piano. Let's move the party downstairs and play together."

We trooped down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, and Doug's eyes immediately traveled to the liquor bottles on the wall.

"Empty," I told him.

"That's okay. Got my own." He patted his back pocket.

I pretended like I hadn't heard him and moved towards the piano, where Grandpa was running his fingers lightly over the keys. He kicked off with "Oh, Susannah," and I jumped in with Jewels. Before long, Spill and Doug were swinging Grandma and the kids around, and everyone was laughing. We had so much fun that after dinner we all went back downstairs for more music.

It was getting late, and Grandpa was playing a soft lullaby for Brandy and Michael, who were almost asleep in the corner. Spill and Doug and I sat in dusty leather chairs listening, half asleep ourselves, when the music was broken by a loud rapping noise upstairs. We all froze. It sounded like someone was trying to knock the door down.

Spill and I ran up the stairs. By the time we got to the front door, the knocking had stopped. I looked through the peep-hole. A small man in a suit was stepping off the porch and walking towards a bicycle.

"I think it's for you, Spill," I said.

He unbolted the door and opened it. "Hey, Randall."

"Oh," he said, turning. "Sorry to interrupt, but the Boss wants to see you."

"Right. Okay," said Spill. "I have to go, Molly, but . . . here." He'd taken a wooden box out of one of the bags he had attached to his bike. "Happy birthday."

"Oh, you didn't have to get me anything," I said. I could feel my face flushing.

"Of course I did. It's a birthday party."

He held the box out, and I took it. "Well . . . thanks."

"See you soon," he said.

I watched them ride off together. The Boss wanted to see him. So Doug had been right after all, and I couldn't deny it any longer. Spill was not simply a delivery boy.

Later, when I was alone in my room, I pried open the lid of the box and inside I found a beautiful pair of hand-st.i.tched leather work boots. I slipped on the right one and it fit like it had been made just for me.

The next morning I went to the bas.e.m.e.nt to collect my fiddle off the piano. As I pa.s.sed the bar, I saw a door that I hadn't noticed before because it was part of the mirrored wall. I ran my fingers along the edge and caught the clasp. The door sprang open.

I think I was hoping for piles of gold, or all the family valuables, because my heart sank down to my new boots when all I discovered was an old storage cupboard. Table l inens and extra gla.s.ses lined the shelves. c.o.c.ktail napkins, mixers, and boxes of candles all sat neatly in rows. The candles were a real find, and I lit a fresh one from the stub I was carrying.

Mostly the closet was empty, but as I turned to go, a box tucked deep in a corner caught my attention. Setting the candle down, I moved over to it and tugged. It was so heavy I had to put my legs into it and I dragged it out behind the bar where I could see better.

Using a bottle opener, I pried open the top. As I reached into the crate and grasped the first bottle, I knew exactly how a prospector felt. I'd struck gold! In the flicker of the candle I read the words I knew would take us all the way back to Canada. Back home.

Jameson Gold Irish Whiskey.

I didn't know anything about whiskey, but this was from Ireland. It had had to be the "really good booze" Spill had been talking about. I did a little Irish jig with the bottle for a partner. When I heard Brandy calling my name from upstairs, I quickly shoved the crate back into the closet, into the darkest corner, burying it under some tablecloths. If Doug found it, my lifeline home would be gone before I could play a single note of "Oh, Canada"! to be the "really good booze" Spill had been talking about. I did a little Irish jig with the bottle for a partner. When I heard Brandy calling my name from upstairs, I quickly shoved the crate back into the closet, into the darkest corner, burying it under some tablecloths. If Doug found it, my lifeline home would be gone before I could play a single note of "Oh, Canada"!

23.

September 14th-Cabbage: A familiar kitchen-garden vegetable about as large and wise as a man's head.

-Ambrose Bierce

OVER THE NEXT THREE WEEKS, I WAS ABOUT READY to explode from both excitement and frustration over the whiskey. I hadn't seen Spill once, which really bothered me for a couple of reasons. I kind of missed him, but more importantly, even though I hated to ask for help, I knew I needed him to sell the whiskey for me.

Not only was Mom's due date creeping closer, but Katie's wedding was less than two weeks away. Getting my grandparents back to the island and Mom's health were the most important factors, but I didn't want to miss the wedding if I could help it, either. I finally decided I couldn't wait any longer for Spill. I would try selling two or three bottles, just to see how much I got. If it went well, then I'd sell the rest, buy our train tickets, and we'd go. I hoped we would see Spill again sometime, though. I'd found myself daydreaming a little too often about his blue eyes and friendly smile to just walk off without saying good-bye.

On a misty morning, I packed three bottles wrapped in one of Grandpa's old shirts into my backpack and headed for the market. I wore a pair of old jeans I'd found upstairs, with a denim jacket, and I let my hair hang loose so it was kind of wild. I'd even smudged a bit of dirt on my cheek too, hoping I'd look like I belonged there, like I was tough.

I stopped on the street just before the entrance, slid one of the bottles out of my pack, keeping it wrapped in the shirt. Men sat at tables, playing cards, smoking, and drinking out of coffee mugs. The aroma of beer was strong, even though it was only ten in the morning. If I couldn't get Spill to sell my whiskey to the rich people, then these were my customers, but I wasn't sure how to approach them. They, however, had no qualms about talking to me.

"Hey there, baby. You're a sweet thing," a scruffy man who could use a good wash said.

"What's a lovely little thing like you doing around here?" his pal with a mangy beard asked.

"Ummm . . . I have . . . I have something to sell," I managed to squeak out.

"You don't say?" He raised his eyebrows and let out a wolf whistle.

Everyone laughed, and I felt my face flush. Then a group of about six men, moving like a pack of wild dogs, got up from a table. As they shuffled towards me, I skirted around another guy who could've been one of their ugly brothers. I held on tight to the bottle, still wrapped in the shirt.

"What you got in your hand?" asked one of the men from the pack. He was crowding up to me, close enough that I could smell the reek of cigarette smoke on his flannel shirt.

In a matter of seconds, I was surrounded by a scraggly lot.

"Nothing," I said, trying to back away. I'd changed my mind. This was not a good idea, and I had to get out of there fast. "Just my grandpa's old shirt." I edged to my right, and the circle of men moved with me.

"Let me see it." A big hairy paw reached out.When I jerked back, the two bottles in my pack clanged together.

"Sounds like bottles," one guy said.

I decided to come clean. Maybe I could start a bidding war or something. I unwrapped the Jameson Gold and held it up like an auctioneer.

"Who wants to buy this bottle of fine old Irish whiskey?" I asked a little too loudly. Suddenly every man within fifty meters descended on me.

"Buy it? Why would we buy it?"

"Seems like it's there for the takin'."

"No! Wait! Stop it!" I shouted as a man reached for it.

"There's more in her pack. I can hear 'em."

"No there's not! Keep your hands off me!"

Someone tried to s.n.a.t.c.h the bottle out of my hand, but I held on with all my might. I'd been shoveling and digging all summer, and my grip was strong. As I yanked my arm away, I lost my balance and the bottle cracked against the head of the guy standing next to him. The whiskey was intact, but the man dropped to the ground.

"Hey! She killed Weasel!"