Page 64 of Playing By Ear

Jamie’s face flamed as he retrieved the ball.

“I’m Miranda’s da, not yours, son,” Raymond grumbled.

“Should’ve quit while you were ahead, Ray, like I did.” Stuart took a stack of notes from a reluctant Eddie, then held out two of the four twenties to Jamie. “A tip for the entertainer.”

Jamie hesitated, then took the cash, thinking of how much more he would have earned busking today. At least this would cover his Uber trips.

Och, he still hadn’t rated his driver, Aziz. Jamie pulled out his phone. On his screen was another text from Perry, with a smiling photo taken on the dock in Oban.

“Ooh, who’s that?” Valerie asked as she slipped her arm inside Jamie’s and led him toward the open back door, where the scent of feast was wafting out.

He clicked off his screen. “No one. Just a friend.”

“Sure.” She put her finger to her lips. “I’ll never tell.”

Inside, Jamie took a seat beside Miranda halfway down the long table, marveling at the holiday feast filling every inch of its surface. He’d spent the last nine Easters busking his arse off in Buchanan Street, hustling so hard for a good pitch he’d no time for even a Beano Supremo scone. At sunset he would trudge home with a hoarse voice, raw fingers, and brimming loot bags. Maybe he’d treat himself to a Cadbury egg before depositing the bounty in his bank account to carry him through the rainier months.

It would be so easy now to let his family look after him. He wouldn’t even have to work for MacKray Enterprises. True, Aunt Norma was the firm’s chief legal agent, but Aunt Rosemary was a veterinarian (who would, admittedly, treat the occasional knife wound to help Martin’s soldiers avoid a trip to hospital), Valerie was a chartered accountant, and Miranda was a respiratory therapist.

So Jamie could have all this—the love, the good times, the ease of wealth—and still be free. If only it didn’t make him feel an accomplice.

Belinda sat at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. Beside her, Lucy carefully unrolled the napkin from around the cutlery and placed it in her lap, with more precision than any adult. Christ, she was cute.

Stuart entered the room, and Belinda touched the chair across from Lucy. He hesitated, perhaps noting that she’d taken the second-in-command end seat. Jamie watched him for signs of resentment or male entitlement, but Stuart turned his attention to Lucy, who instantly coaxed an adoring smile from him.

Belinda had shown Jamie a few pics of her husband these last ten years, but seeing him in person confirmed that in his thirties he’d retained his slick good looks, complete with sly grin and carefully sculpted dark hair and beard. It made Jamie want to like him more, but in reality he liked him less.

Maybe Stuart was loyal enough to be content working under his wife. Or maybe he was just biding his time until his father-in-law was out of the picture. Jamie would keep an eye on him.

Rosemary pinched Jamie’s side as she took the seat to his left. When he let out an ow, she said, “Just making sure you’re really here, lad.”

“I’ll not be here long if you keep doing that.”

She laughed, tossing her brassy blond bob, then pinched him again, harder.

Last but the opposite of least, Martin took his seat at the head of the table. The hum of conversation faded as the weight of the moment settled on all their minds. Martin’s carving of the lamb would be the first of so many lasts.

Martin grasped the shank bone of the center leg and set the blade along one end. Then he paused.

Jamie looked at Belinda. She’d told him the tumor was on the right side of their dad’s brain and was thus likely to affect motor skills on his left side. Which meant it shouldn’t affect his right hand, the one holding the knife.

Unless the tumor had already spread to the other side. Could it do that? Every glioblastoma patient’s decline was different. Martin might remain lucid until the end, with his impairments mainly physical. Or he might continue to walk and feed himself while his mind and memories crumbled.

“All right there?” Stuart asked. “Want me to get it started for you?”

Martin’s glare said he could’ve hurled the knife through his son-in-law’s neck.

“‘Get it started’?” Rosemary shrilled. “That skin’s as tender as a baby’s bahookie.”

The laughter broke the tension, and Martin carved the lamb with steady hands.

Jamie didn’t laugh. In the brief tug of egos over the lamb, an instinctive alliance had awoken within him. If the situation had escalated, he would’ve stood with the father he thought he hated.

“To Oban.”

Perry turned his head to see his mum’s wine glass rise to his left. He echoed her toast as he carefully took hold of his own glass, touched it to hers, then held it still so his dad could clink from his right. His glass’s delicate stem and enormous bowl made him wistful for Zio Mario’s wine tumblers, which were much harder to tip over.

Not that he had any complaints about this restaurant situated on a pier jutting out into the bay. There was a reason Oban called itself the seafood capital of Scotland. Every shellfish on their table had been harvested that morning off the coast of Mull or down near the Slate Islands. Though they were seated away from the window to reduce the glare for him and his mum, just knowing they were surrounded by water added to the serenely festive atmosphere.