In The Shadow Of A Wish

Caz entered the nightclub. Bodies and light moved in a frenetic beat to techno music. Adrenaline kicked in and she swayed forward, dipped into the outer rim and was jostled into the centre. Arms pulled her into the thrust of hip and sex, heat rising with the touch of skin on skin. Her body tingled and she lent invitingly into the heat.

The music stopped & she was pulled from the floor to the bar. She blinked, looked up to meet a guy’s dark, aroused glance before he lent forward, tongue lathing her ear as he whispered of where else his tongue was going to be. It was like a cold slap. She froze. He pulled back, his hand still gripping her arm possessively.
What was she going to do? She’d come here seeking oblivion, but this? She’d made a terrible mistake. She tried not to panic and nodded vaguely as he spoke, words drifting over her head.

The music started up again and she was pulled back toward the gathering mass. They were bumped, jostled and by some miracle their contact was broken. He lunged at her, but was blocked and with relief, she squeezed back through the crowd. She kept moving until she was outside and hailed a taxi and shivered all the way home.

She’d been an idiot. She should have taken up Sara’s offer to go to the pictures, but she’d needed motion; a way to squash a growing fear that if she didn’t let go soon, she’d break.

The taxi stopped and she looked up at the house she’d shared with her twin. It was dark and silent and she didn’t know if she could go in. The driver asked for his fare. She hesitated. He frowned and she reluctantly paid him off and stepped out of the car.
He drove off and she watched it travel to the end of the street before going inside where she put on all the lights – to the hall, to the kitchen, then the lounge.

Light played off the glossy black piano in one corner. On top of it stood a glass figurine of a cat. It was in the act if pouncing. A gift from Quinn on their last birthday. ‘A bit like you – so intense ,’ he’d said with a laugh, oddly brittle.
It had startled her and she’d been about to ask – what was wrong, when he’d smiled and held out his hand – for his gift. When she’d given him a ticket for a private viewing at the Parks Observatory, his stunned pleasure had made her forget about it. Now she’d never know. He’d taken off the next day, to the Parkes, but never made it; flung off his bike on an unfamiliar bend. If she’d never bought that ticket … and guilt swamped her.

She felt bereft all over again and it was too much. She could bear it no longer and turned, hurried to her room. She scooped up clothes randomly and shoved them into a bag, grabbed her keys then got into her car and drove.

Over an hour later she reached Murray Bridge. She had to slow down to cross the bridge and baulked. She stopped at a parking bay and rested her head on the steering wheel. Was she ready to face her parents?

It had been months since she’d visited the farm and two since…the day of the funeral. That day was cold with drenching rain and masked so many tears.
She hadn’t cried since. But the numbness was wearing off now. She looked up. The farm was only 30 minutes away. It hurt, but she needed familiar faces and her home. She started the car and drove on, turning off at the sign to Ponde.

Plastered across the telegraph poles were posters advertising the Music Festival. She’d forgotten it was on this weekend. It meant lots of people gathering in the back hills. Some would already be there setting up & she looked down at her watch. It was past twelve thirty. Maybe they’d be finished for the night, but joy riders just couldn’t resist flying along the deserted back roads. Someone was bound to end up in the channel.

Sure enough, in the distance she saw a band of lights over the channel.. She increased speed, reached the milking sheds of her parents farm, then went up the small hill to the house. She’d barely got out of the car when her mum, appeared. ‘Cassandra,’ she uttered, surprised, then moved forward to embrace her quickly. ‘I was expecting your dad. I’ve got a couple of teenagers inside. Their car ended up in the channel.’
‘Hurt much?’
‘No. Fortunately. They’ll be fine after they’ve slept off the shock and the alcohol.’
Caz grimaced. ‘Andy help?’ He worked for them.
‘Of course, but he’s gone home now. He just rang to say they’d finished,’ then looked up at Caz. ‘I’m glad you’re home – despite the hour.’
She nodded, unable to speak, to explain.
Her mum looked away a moment then back, said softly. ‘You need a hot drink,’ then turned and walked back toward the door. Caz trailed after her, glad of a minute to prepare herself.

When she walked into the kitchen, she saw the rows of newly made jam on the side board. She nearly cried then, but gritted her teeth and went past into the hall, and up to her room. She dropped her bag and drew a deep breath before returning to the kitchen.

Her dad had arrived. He looked at her with the same liquid brown eyes of Quinn and she trembled. He lifted her off her feet and hugged her tightly. She clung to him like a child before he set her down.
He eyed her critically. ‘You need to eat more.’
She laughed shakily. It sounded so normal. ‘Yes dad.’
Her mum took his hand and he leaned into her, face sagging into deep lines of fatigue. Caz found tears in her eyes. She should have come sooner.

‘It’s all right hon,’ he said understanding, and she knew he did; knew they both did but it was still unbearable. She rose, kissed them quickly before she came undone and went to her room, their voices a soft murmur as she closed the door.

She sank down onto the bed. She was exhausted. She slipped under the covers, still dressed and closed her eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come as she remembered all too vividly that night four years ago; the night of their eighteenth birthday.

It was after the party and the two of them stood together watching the stars. Their beauty instilled a shivering awareness of the universe and of self. Something lost in the city, but the promise of other things pulled at them just as strongly.
A star fell and Quinn had looked at her face alight, like the kid he pretended he wasn’t and said. ‘Make a wish Caz.’
She did. An impulsive one; dark and terrible.
Immediately afterward she’d wanted to take it back – but the star was gone. The wish taken. She’d wanted to tell him what it was. Had wondered what his wish had been.
He didn’t say & neither had she. Now it was too late and she curled up in the bed and let a tide of self- loathing roll over her.

• **

She was woken by a hand on her leg. It was her dad.
‘Come help me with the cows?’
She blinked and he waited, not pushing. Their ritual. Their time together.

‘All right, give me a minute.’ And he nodded, shoulders straightening as he left her to dress.
She joined him on the verandah and they walked together under the arched grapevine, through the gate and the path to the milking shed. The moon’s crescent winked the night closed and started the new day. Her dad spoke little during the milking, but then he never did -the only sounds – the cows, softly grunting along side the steady beat of the machine – like a heart. And she needed it badly after last night.

Later, she left him to feed the chooks and turkeys. She collected the eggs and returned to the house where her mum cooked them with bacon and the smell woke the sleeping boys. They wandered in, sheepish & thankful as they ate heartily before being picked up by friends. They’d been lucky.

‘Speaking of music.’ her mum said. ‘ I’ve a student coming for a lesson today.’
‘On a Saturday?’
‘It’s a new family’s daughter, Shilo. She’s keen to be ready for her exams.’
‘Is she any good?’ Caz asked involuntarily.
‘Not bad, but nothing like you at that age.’ And caught her mum’s rising smile and shared the moment. Then hers faded. Her mum eyed her searchingly, but refrained from asking her about her own, particular studies. For that she was grateful.
She hadn’t touched her piano for over a week, and wondered if she would ever again feel that drive to be part of the concert scene; the heavy practice and performances.

It was what her mum had done for a short time before she met dad. And she always stressed how happy she was, had never regretted that choice. But just occasionally she looked wistful as she did now, as Caz pondered her life. It made her feel uncomfortable and guilty for not willing to share her thoughts so she rose and cleared the table.

When Shilo arrived she slipped out the back and walked down the hill to the surface road. She crossed it and followed the line of paddock to the river landing where the Murray flowed, brown-green and deadly.

They’d learnt to respect its murky depths and still enjoy the pleasure of its silken coolness in summer. Quinn delighted in plucking the slimy reeds from under the surface and throwing them at her. She hated them but had tried to laugh, but she’d nightmares about them weaving around her head and neck. He’d stopped when he knew. Even coaxed her back to swim there again with him.’ Or why else go? he’d said and she understood.

Today its surface bobbed tree branches, like small arms waving for help. She shuddered and turned away. She would not swim here again and walked back the way she’d come and stopped by the road. Ahead was the other part of Ponde – the undulating, orange-red hills. She moved toward them and stepped onto the sand. The wind lifted the grains and whispered of ancient chanting voices; their music one she never tried of; one she could easily fold herself into, but the wind changed, died and slithered into silence. It was broken by bird cries and she looked up to see Corellas dance the sky a brilliant white.
A ballet,’ Quinn said once, surprising her. ‘ Perfectly controlled and executed.’
There had been envy and strange yearning in his voice. It was unusual for him. What did he yearn for?

He was the truly gifted one. He was able to bring an excellence to whatever he undertook – be it an instrument or any other creative pursuit. He’d joined the Elder Conservatorium with her and stayed for the first six months then turned to art.

His paintings were vivid and unforgettable, in ways that could also be confronting.
‘Raw,’ they’d been called by galleries and much sort after. She’d been secretly relieved when he’d left the music to her and wondered if he’d known. She’d wanted to ask him, but never had. Did that make her selfish?
The question often haunted her.

It haunted her now as she returned to the house via the front garden and stopped dead. Her arms tingled as the sweeping notes of the piano joined the budding roses. The player came to a crescendo then drifted into a soft refrain; all wistful gentleness and with a jolt she realized it was her mum playing. She was still good, better than good. But had changed career mid- stride.

What if she didn’t go back?

A tractor engine roared to life and startled her almost as much as her thoughts. She moved away from the house, too unsettled to go in and went through to the back yard where the hay shed stood. Andy was there with a trailer full of bales. She hurried to catch him.
‘Where’s dad?’ she asked climbing on the back.
‘Changing sprinklers in the north east paddock.’
‘He’ll be there most of the day then.’
‘Yeah,’ and squinted against the sun. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ll help.’
He nodded and she sat back on the hay.

He drove to the paddocks across from the milking shed and put the tractor in low gear. The cows meandered toward them, noses extended, eyes innocently greedy and she had to laugh. Andy turned and grinned back, stayed at the wheel & let her unravel the bales. It was therapeutic and she enjoyed the rhythm of bend, break, push and watched the cows’ lips curl around the stalks.
Paddock number one done, two more to go.

When they finished, Andy patted the side of the wheel guard and she rode next to him. ‘How long you staying?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Finished your studies then?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to?’
She stiffened and couldn’t meet his eyes a moment then did.
‘How’d you know?’
‘Stands to reason,’ he said eyes moist. ‘ Nothings the same and never will be.’ Paused. ‘When Angie died, I died too, for a while.’
‘How did you bear it?’
‘I eventually looked around and found comfort in small things; a sunset, the crickets
in the morning and work. There’s always that and I love this land.’
Her throat constricted and she lent forward to kiss his cheek. ‘Thanks.’ And fell silent.

Did she love the music enough to get past this? She didn’t know, but she was grateful for Andy’s blunt words. He always got straight to the heart of matters and she could take it from him. She left him at the shed and went inside to join her mum for lunch.
‘I’ve some ivy to cut back and some weeding to do. Want to join me?’
‘I think… I might read.’
She nodded. ‘You always were one for going off into a corner while Quinn…’ and turned away, fussing with her glass.

Caz jumped up. ‘On second thoughts, maybe I could help,’ and took her plate to the sink and lent heavily against it. Her mum walked over and touched her cheek softly as she went past and went outside saying. ‘We can do the dishes later.’

Caz gathered her courage. Her mum obviously wanted to talk about Quinn. She’d held back for her. Dad too. She’d thought they’d been coping much better than her – but were they ?’

Outside she found her mum cutting roses, tears running down her face. She moved quickly forward and wrapped her arms around her & buried her face in her hair.

They stayed locked together for a long time before they eventually parted and by tactic agreement gathered tools and started weeding. When a memory came it was voiced and then stored in future’s box. It was a small step toward recovery and a life she wasn’t sure she’d wanted in those first grief stricken weeks. She horded the feeling against the time when she would leave. Took a deep breath. Understood she couldn’t stay, anymore than the last time when she and Quinn left. The reasons were still true now. She would spend another day here for her parent’s sake then go back. Simple.

Not so simple when she was back in the city and walked back into the house. No more Quinn laughing or teasing her. She closed her eyes and slid to the floor, the anguish she could no longer deny set free.

She cried a long time, but slowly and with an effort, she stopped. She rose unsteadily to her feet and went into kitchen to make a strong cup of coffee. It revived her enough to take an interest in packet of letters she’d brought in. One of them was from Wade Jaffer. He’d been working with Quinn on a special project; one she knew nothing about. Had he finished it ? It didn’t matter. Anything of Quinn’s was precious.

She read the note : He apologized for troubling her, but wanted her opinion of the project and her permission for it to go ahead. Her permission? That was odd. He left a card and number to call. She looked at it. Wade Jaffer. Publisher of fiction and non-fiction. An art book? She wanted badly to have something more of Quinn’s.

When she called he was brisk, made a time and assured her he’d explain all when they met on the morrow. She hung up, a little annoyed, wanting only to know. It was an anxious wait and spent the entire day cleaning; slept badly despite aching limbs and was very nervous when she entered the publishing house.

The receptionist, Rebecca, led her past a room full of printers to an office bulging with printers and people peering into computers. Long desks with paper covered in bright design and writing. One actually had segmented pages & looked remarkably like… a comic. Caz stared, made to move closer but they’d reached Wade’s office. Rebecca knocked and opened the door and ushered her in.

A man standing over a desk looked up then quickly moved forward to take her hand. ‘Cassandra. I’m so sorry…’ and waved a hand.
‘No. I’m early’ taking his meaning at face value. ‘and please. It’s Caz.’
He nodded. ‘ I’m glad you came.’ And motioned to Rebecca, who left discreetly closing the door. He turned and grabbed two chairs, placing them opposite each other and waited until she sat, then did too.

He hesitated before saying quietly. ‘ In the time Quinn and I worked together, we got to know each other really well. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you earlier– but Quinn…’
‘He wanted to surprise me?’
‘Yes,’ and regarded her curiously. She stared back. Wade wasn’t what she’d expected. He was of medium height with long blonde hair tied back in a pony tail. He didn’t look much older than she was, but there was a coiled intensity about him that was compelling. And she did vaguely remember seeing him at the funeral. Tears came before she could stop them. She looked down. She heard Wade rise then felt a cup in her hand. She took it and sipped slowly, then wiped her face.
When she could look up, his face was grave, gentle. It nearly set her off again but
She managed to compose herself. & put the cup down.
‘So , what was this project – an art book?’
‘No exactly, something else, close to Quinn’s heart and mine. A graphic novel.’
‘What is that exactly?’
‘Can I show you?’
She nodded and he rose. She followed him to a table strewn with paper. On it were drawings and writing. The colour and movement of it was very Quinn. She caught her breath.

The first image could have been taken from the very hills near the farm; smooth, yet shifting with a mystical quality that cut right to the heart of how she felt about them.
She stepped back. ‘He knew,’ she said swallowing and Wade looked at her. ‘How I felt about – the land.’
‘Quinn was very nervous about showing you these.’
She suddenly had an inclining why. It showed just how much he really understood her and she had a terrible thought. Did it mean he knew of – her wish? She blanched. Surely not. She’d had her secret, maybe he did too.

‘Quinn respected your opinion. Said you were his greatest critic,’ added hastily, ‘and for that he was grateful’
‘But I’m not an artist.’
‘You play the piano don’t you? I don’t think there’s much difference between them.’
She looked up surprised. ‘Both arts give and stir emotion in the listener, or viewer. And that’s partly why you’re here,’ and gestured to the pictures.
‘Quinn wanted to make music for this – composed by you.’

‘What? But I’ve never…’
‘He believed you could do it.’
She was shocked & didn’t know how to respond. He picked up a book. ‘Here’s a copy of the completed novel, printed. Read it and see what you think and let me know.’
She took it slowly. ‘But… I thought you were a publisher?’
‘Yes, but I also have a passion for music,’ And she heard it in his voice, deep, immeasurable and understood why Quinn had liked this man.

‘All right. I’ll read it. How long before you need to know …?’
‘That’s up to you … but I don’t think Ill have to wait long.’
She bit her lip, anger surfacing from nowhere. How did he know what she thought?
She turned, back stiff and walked to the door.
‘Caz?’
She stopped, but didn’t look back. ‘Quinn always said you were a quick study.’
That brought her around, even angrier. He put up a hand. ‘He meant you had the ability to size up very quickly what worked & what didn’t.’
‘I see.’ And the anger left her. ‘Well,’ and lifted the book. ‘We’ll see won’t we?’
He nodded and didn’t stop her leaving this time.

Outside Caz had the strangest feeling she’d been played. The anger had pushed some of her grief away. Had Wade done it on purpose?
She decided after a moment – that yes, maybe he had. It didn’t disturb her as much as she thought it would, rather intrigued instead. The world was full of surprises.

It was later that day before she finally picked up the novel. She studied the cover first. It was a glossy, abstract design with various shapes and colours overlayed to conceal surprisingly – two faces. One was definitely Quinn’s, eyes deep chocolate. The other looked catlike with emerald eyes and sat up stunned.
No, surely not; peered more closely and there was no doubt. It was her.
What did it say about the contents of the book?
She opened it, feeling uneasy, as if she might just be opening Panadora’s box.
And she was right.

A yearning seemed to leap off the first page in the images of hills, of night sky, of rivers interlaced with delicate, long fingers and faces in profile, eyes not quite seen, mysterious. On another page, fragments of keyboards and strings shimmered, waiting to be played, lived. And words accompanying them – simple, honest – in a search of that tangible something that inspires dreams. His dreams, edged with a tension she’d witnessed often in Quinn’s eyes when he was about to immerse himself into something new. The ending a truth bared. It was revealing, sobering and there was much she’d taken for granted.

She wanted to peel back time then and relieve every moment and wished she’d told him how proud she’d been of his abilities – his willingness to take risks.

Did she have it in her to take a risk now? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know if she could return to what she already knew. She closed the book and looked at the piano. It’s silence reproached. She rose and carefully pulled back the lid to expose the black and white keys.

They’d been her life for years; her purpose clear and she’d not deviated from it. Where had that drive come from? And images came of the book. The music was a reaction to her home; her childhood and the strength of her bond with Quinn. She closed her eyes. Maybe she had not completely lost him.

She sat down on the stool and gently sunk into the keys. The notes, softly echoed then fell silent. She drew deep breath and remembered what her mum had said.
‘Take what’s inside you, hold it like waiting rain, then let it cascade through your fingers and feel the notes open like a flower.’
She wanted to be open again. Wanted to be that flower, vivid with life.

She placed her fingers on the keys began ‘The Moonlight Sonata’ by Beethoven. Slowly… adagio molto. Softly… pianissimo… Then shifted her fingers a little faster… allegretto, to a crescendo, then softly again, building life and tension into the notes to a presto agitato… passionately agitated.

It tingled into her spine, freed the numbness of her aching heart and she slipped unconsciously into ‘A Bridge Over Troubled Waters.’ One of Simon and Garkunkel’s greatest hits… Feeling small. Wanting to lay down and be comforted as Quinn’s presence had comforted in the darkness; friend and brother. The notes gradually fell into stillness and she bowed her head; loss distilled in poignant echo

She opened her eyes. The black and white keys stared back at her and she took a deep breath, lifted her fingers and looked at them. They appeared unchanged, but under the skin was a pulsing thrum, as if other music waited to break free.
Did she want it to?

She closed the piano lid and rose to walk unsteadily to the lounge and sat. She looked at the book and was reaching for it when her mobile rang. It was Sara. She sounded relived, concerned, but happy she’d been back home; tactfully didn’t ask how it went. Reminded her of the concert series at the Town Hall that night.

It was part of their last semester’s program and a compulsory one. A lead up to the final challenge and participation in the coming music competition. Others from their class would be there too. She wasn’t sure she wanted to face them, but if she didn’t go…
She agreed to pick Sara up at 6, preferring to drive this time..

Sara eyed he carefully then said, ‘What’s up?’
She sighed and told her about the book and the music.
‘I’d love a copy,’ Sara said immediately.
Caz knew she would. She’d had a crush on Quinn for the 4 years they’d been in town. She took a quick look at her friend and wondered suddenly how she had taken the news about Quinn. She’d been so wrapped up in her own grief she hadn’t even considered how others felt. Sara looked pensive, her face thinner. She wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure she could cope with another’s pain yet.

They entered the Town Hall and took the steps up to the gallery overlooking the stage.
The room filled up around her and she recognized Greg with Julie and Tom, an inseparable trio. They chatted animatedly, connected. She’d never envied that closeness til now for she’d always had Quinn. The loss twisted in her gut and she moved a little closer to Sara, who surprisingly had also moved closer. She pretended not to notice, but did find some comfort in it.

The MC walked to the mike and introduced the first performer; a solo violinist. She arched her bow and flowed into her piece, face concentrated, serious and dedicated.

Did she look like that she wondered? So serious. She watched the girl move into a crescendo and saw, felt emotion spring& escape. It was beautiful. When it ended there was a hush, that wonderful moment before the rush of applause. Next came a trio. A violin, cello and clarinet, its reedy sound softly breathless against the strings. It left an echo of spent desire and she understood the love Quinn had for Jazz and swing. But then a pianist walked in and sat down. Caz shifted to the edge of her seat.

Her fingers twitched as he rippled through tempos, and she mimicked his movements; gripped her hands when she saw Sara’s small understanding smile out of the corner of her eye. He was good, better than good but she could match it, maybe even transcend it if she wanted and something within her cracked.

The rest of the evening was a blur. She dropped Sara off, her silence as deep as her own – no doubt thinking on her own skill.

The house was dark ands brooding. She stood within it a moment before moving down the hall, past the bedrooms to the end room , Quinn’s studio. She opened the door. Dark shadows were faintly limed and she felt her own shadows respond, need light. She flipped the light switch and waited as colour and shape transformed.

A canvas stood in one corner. A bench next to it lay strewn with drawings and containers with paint & brushes. Around further stood a music stand and next to it a table and a cardboard box, a clarinet’s tipped point sticking out. She walked over to it, picked it up. She put her mouth over the reed and blew softly, the note discordant and barely there but it tasted of memory and Quinn. She bowed her head then looked around at the many sides of Quinn and knew that this was not for her; not this swing from one passion to another. She placed the clarinet back carefully and left the room, closed the door, but knew she would – could come back later to steep herself in his things.

She moved to the lounge where Quinn’s graphic novel lay and picked it up. She held it in her hands but didn’t open it. She understood it, but what about Wade? Did he understand? But more importantly, could she translate it into a score worth listening to?

She put the book down and rubbed her temple. She was too strung out to think clearly. She needed sleep and to see Wade again. Maybe then she could decide & stumbled off to bed.

In the morning she felt better and rang through, spoke to Wade and made an appointment to see him at 2 o’clock. She had time to kill, so spent the morning on the internet looking at Wade’s Publishing House. ‘Qualia.’ It wa called. An unusual name and she wondered what it meant, if anything.

On the front page of his web site was the answer.

Qualia (A philosophers term for)
The freshness and vigour that is our felt experience of things

That was promising. It gave her a lift and she nodded, pleased as she read down the list of categories. Non-fiction: nature, science & some art manuals.
Fiction with sub-genres; literary, crime, and a recent addition – speculative fiction and which would include the Graphic novel, pending the first title release.
With a start she realized it was Quinn’s book.
And he wanted a CD to go with it. But would it sell?

IT all boiled down to confidence; Wade’s confidence as a publisher and his confidence in her. What could she produce that would appeal to those reading a graphic novel?
It would take a lot of work… yet the possibility niggled; tempted.
Could she/ did she want to do it?

Later, in Wade’s office he reiterated firmly. ‘Quinn had every confidence in you.’
‘And you?’
‘I need only to know if you’ll try.’
She hesitated and he studied her a moment before turning to his desk drawer and pulling out a sheet of paper. ‘Maybe this will help you decide.’ And passed it to her. She looked down and froze. It was Quinn’s dedication for the book.

To Cassandra.
Sister. Twin. You are that unfailing star
that keeps me grounded.

She closed her eyes.
Not a falling star. Not a wishing star and felt her heart break.
Caz?”
She opened her eyes. Wade’s face was blurred by her tears. She pushed the paper into his hand and sat down. She wiped her eyes and sniffed.

He read the words and nodded. ‘Quinn always said you were the reliable one; dedicated.’
‘Sounds boring,’ she muttered and he looked at her sharply. ‘No. He meant you had the guts to stick to one thing.’
‘Then why this?’
He frowned. ‘It’s music. You can still study and compose too– can’t you?’
‘No… I don’t think so,’ and suddenly her decision crystallized. She rose with surprisingly calm. ‘ I don’t want to be a concert pianist any more.’
‘That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?’ he said slowly. ‘ I don’t think Quinn thought you’d to give up your career.’
‘Don’t you?’
He stared, eyes betraying an emotion she couldn’t quite grasp but not denying it.

‘Quinn knew me better than I knew myself – or him.’
‘That I don’t believe.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ and waved a hand. ‘ You want the CD don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll have it,’ she said and sat. ‘Tell me what you expect.’

An hour later she left with few regrets. She could do this. She wanted to stretch herself and find the music within.. Quinn had seen it and believed in her. It would be his legacy and she would honour it.

And maybe in time, she could forgive herself for that wish. The wish she’d made that night – to be him.

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