Her expression softened.
“He believed every child could sing.”
Owen laughed.
“They can’t.”
“Thomas would have argued with you for hours.”
“What if they were really terrible?”
“He would have said they hadn’t found the right song yet.”
Mrs. Parker looked toward the window.
“Thomas was like that about people too.”
I sat quietly.
Something told me interruption would break whatever fragile path she was walking.
“We were close,” she continued. “Very close.”
Owen leaned forward.
“Were you boyfriend and girlfriend?”
Mrs. Parker gave him a look.
“Do twelve-year-olds still ask questions that directly?”
“Mostly.”
She smiled.
“No. We weren’t.”
Owen seemed disappointed.
“Why not?”
“Because life is often less organized than stories.”
She hesitated.
“Thomas received an offer to study music in Boston. He wanted to compose.”
“So he left?”
“Eventually.”
“Did you want him to?”
Mrs. Parker looked at the unopened envelope.
“No.”
That single word seemed heavier than everything else she had said.
