Page 86 of The Invisible Roommate

“I posed the idea to Joe, who said you were the best and hardest worker he’d ever had out on the Susanna and that he would like to have you back come next season. When Joe and I were talking, we were leaving a morning service where Father Daniels overheard us. He said several Ipingers had come to him about their stolen property and felt conflicted about bringing any charges against you because they didn’t feel punishment was the Christian answer for someone so eager for absolution. As vice mayor, Kellen rallied the troops and brought the idea to Sergeant Adye,” Regina said with a pleased smile.

“I know Sergeant Adye said Ipingers look out for one another, but still … I don’t understand. Why?” An unbudging part of him felt that he was unworthy of this meal, of this compassion. He wanted desperately to … disappear.

No, that was the old Emory.

Now he wanted to stay. He wanted to comprehend.

Joe said, “We know an Ipinger when we see one.”

“I was a transplant like you, too. Kellen wooed me on the mainland during college and then surprised me by wanting to move back here. It’s an adjustment, but you really grow to love it,” Angie said while buttering a piece of bread.

“I grew to love it, too. Don’t think I’d have stayed as long as I have after Quincy passed if I didn’t,” Regina said, not really paying attention to where she was cutting the roast. Emory worried for her fingers. Joe stepped in with an assist before she could slice herself silly. A flirtatious look passed between them that heartened Emory until it curdled by making him think of Gerard.

“We’re happy you stayed, Regina. Not only because of your superb cooking this evening, but the church choir would be in shambles without you.” Father Daniels’s soup was completely gone, and his spoon was licked clean.

“We might as well raise our voices in that house of worship for as long as it’s above water,” Regina said.

“We’re working on our appeals to Congress first thing in the new year. We need money for a second seawall, or in thirty to fifty years, we’re going to all be climate refugees,” Kellen said, to which Angie vehemently nodded in agreement.

Father Daniels clasped his hands in front of him. “God won’t let that happen.”

Emory didn’t think God was going to stop the rising sea levels, but then again, according to the Bible, He did send that great flood, so maybe He could manipulate the waters however He pleased. Emory had shirked art in favor of science until Gerard taught him balance. He could stand to be more open-minded when it came to religion, too.

“We’ve veered off track,” said Regina. “We’re here for Emory.”

Kellen smiled with genuine warmth in his direction. “We could tell you loved Iping, too, on Halloween, and we realized we didn’t exactly make you feel welcome. Not that we deserved our golf carts hot-wired or our groceries eaten, but we agreed that we wished we’d looked a little harder and realized you were one of us sooner. Someone who might have done a good job hiding it, but also someone who belonged here.”

Overcome, Emory tried to speak, but the words got caught in his throat, so he mouthed a thank-you to everyone gathered before him, to which they all nodded.

“Besides,” Regina added, “if they’d locked you up, who’d pay me rent?”

Everyone laughed—even Emory—before devouring the juicy, perfectly cooked roast.

The third course was a traditional English trifle consisting of almond pound cake, fresh raspberries, poached pears, custard, and amaretto and marsala wine. Upon first bite, flavors mingling on his tongue, Emory knew it was the best thing he’d ever tasted in his whole life. Thoughts of Gerard dulled to a low yet still-present ache.

After dessert, they moved into the sitting room, where Regina played the piano while everyone nursed cups of coffee. Emory’s heart rate rose slightly with each tinkling note, which wasn’t unpleasant, until after her third song, Regina said, “Emory, did I hear you were learning the guitar? You should play something for us.”

He grew hot as everyone’s eyes landed on him. “It’s impossible to perform after you.” The compliment came out choked.

“Nonsense,” she said.

“I don’t even have a guitar to play…” Emory said.

“That’s all right. I’ve got one here for you.” She produced a guitar that had been concealed behind the piano.

It was a guitar Emory knew well.

Pascal.

There he was.

In all his painted, tuned-up glory.

Emory’s heart sped.

“What do you say?” Regina asked, clearly observant of the unadulterated gleam in his eyes. “James—I mean, Gerard—left this here for you to practice on. I believe his exact words to me were ‘I’ll be back to check on his progress very soon.’”

Floating with happiness, Emory took the guitar with the intention of singing “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” but at the last minute, he changed his mind when he recalled another beginner-level song Gerard had taught him. “I’m a little rusty, but here goes nothing. This one’s called ‘Wonderwall.’”