Stevie’s head snaps in my direction. “You owe a hundred dollars to the fund, Dad.”
That sends Astrid’s gaze toward me too. I see curiosity swimming in her eyes.
“After Stevie’s mom died, I set up a charitable foundation with her parents…”
“My grandma and grandpa,” Stevie interrupts excitedly. “It’s to remember my Mommy. She died of cancer. It’s a bad thing, but our foundation helps people like her. Daddy has to give a hundred dollars to it if he says a bad word.”
Astrid shifts her attention solely on my daughter. “I’m so sorry, Stevie. My mom died of cancer too.”
Stevie’s eyes widen. “No way.”
Astrid glances in my direction before she looks back at Stevie. “It was a few years ago. I miss her a lot.”
My daughter reaches for Astrid’s hand. “Do you have a foundation for her too? Is that how you remember her?”
“I don’t,” Astrid whispers. “I remember her through my music, and I got a tattoo in honor of her the day after she died.”
“A tattoo?” Still holding tightly to Astrid’s hand, Stevie inches closer to her. “Can I see it?”
Astrid presents her other hand to Stevie, flipping it over to reveal the small shaded bird tattoo. “This is it. My mom’s name was Becky Byrd.”
Stevie runs a fingertip lightly over the ink. “This is beautiful.”
“Every time I see it, I think about my mom,” Astrid confesses.
Stevie looks up and into the face of the woman I’m falling hard and fast for. “We’re the same. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”
Without a word, Astrid gathers my daughter into her arms and holds her close.
I turn away because my emotions are barreling to the surface, and I need to be strong for my daughter.
That’s been my job since her mother passed. It will be my job until I take my last breath on this earth.
“How do you know what words to put in a song?” Stevie asks as her fingers pluck at the strings of the guitar in her hands.
It’s become her most prized possession.
Since Astrid brought it over, my daughter has spent hours practicing the two simple chords she was taught.
Every night she carefully places it back in its case before putting it on the window seat in her bedroom.
“I think it’s different for every songwriter,” Astrid says softly. “For me, I write down the words I feel in my heart. After that, I come up with a melody that fits them.”
“The melody is the notes,” Stevie states proudly. “Keats taught me that.”
My brother has taught her a hell of a lot over the years. I’ll never be able to repay him for everything he’s done.
“Keats is right.” Astrid steals a glance to where I’m sitting in a chair near the doorway of the music room.
The two of them are side-by-side on two wooden chairs.
Since Astrid didn’t bring her guitar, she’s been helping Stevie perfect the two chords she already taught her.
“Is writing lyrics kind of like writing poetry?” Stevie asks.
Astrid nods. “That’s how my mom first explained it to me.”
Stevie’s eyes widen. “Your mom was a singer?”
“A really good one.” Astrid smiles. “She had a hit song.”
“My mom was a poet,” Stevie announces proudly. “Her poems are in a book. Do you want to see?”
Before I can say anything, Stevie is on her feet, sprinting out of the room.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t know that she’d bring that up. Layna wrote poetry. Her dream was to have her work published, so I made that happen before she died.”
Astrid turns to face me. “That’s beautiful, Berk.”
I stare at her, in awe at how compassionate she is.
I hear Stevie’s thundering footsteps on the approach, so I turn toward the doorway just as she reappears with the leather-bound poetry book in her hands.
“I got it.” She holds it above her head. “Maybe I can make a song out of one of Mommy’s poems one day.”
Astrid strokes a hand lightly over Stevie’s back. “I think you will. I think you can do anything.”
Stevie turns to look at her. “Just like you. You can do anything, Astrid. I hope I grow up to be just like you.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Astrid
The poetry in the book is laced with every emotion imaginable.
I read the first poem carefully, absorbing each well-chosen word about a woman’s hesitation about becoming a mom.
Her fears are masked beneath a layer of hope.
Hope that her child will grow up to be fearless, kind, and a soul to be reckoned with.
I glance at Stevie as she plucks at the guitar strings. Her sweet voice is churning out made-up lyrics about feeding chocolate cake to a dolphin.
Suddenly, she bursts into laughter. “This song would be a flop. Dolphins can’t eat chocolate cake.”
Berk lets out a chuckle. “Some songs have silly lyrics, but they become huge hits.”
“Really?” Stevie’s eyes widen as she shifts her gaze to my face. “Is that true, Astrid?”