A Song for the Road

A Song for the Road
♦    A NOVEL    ♦
KATHLEEN BASI


To my husband Christian, who has walked every step of this journey with me, and who has helped me understand the beauty and complexity of love.


 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHORS ARE OFTEN TOLD “write what you know,” but the reality is that if we didn’t step outside our normal lanes, we could only write about ourselves. So this page is for publicly acknowledging those who helped me reach this long-dreamed-of milestone. I couldn’t have done it without you!
First shout-out goes to my husband and kids, who have experienced every up and down of this long journey with me.
To Dolores Caron, Emily Brett, and Dr. Melissa Kouba—my thanks for answering medical questions. Jennifer Sutton, you are my long-suffering hero. Thanks for endless Messenger chats about ICU procedures and for reading that critical medical scene again … and again … and again!
To the Our Lady of Lourdes contemporary group and the St. Thomas More Newman Center 11:00 choir: you taught me what a church “choir” can be. Also to my friends of the Liturgical Composers Forum, who expanded that lesson to the national level.
To Laura St. Clair: your willingness to share the experience of widowhood helped me enter Miriam’s world.
My thanks to my Women Fiction Writers Association writing partners—Janet Rundquist, Cerrissa Kim, and Chris Adler; and especially to my top-notch local critique partners—Brian Katcher, Heidi Stallman, Kelsey Simon, Ida Fogle, and Amy Whitley. I thank God for you every day. Special shout-out to Amy for introducing me to travel writing, which undoubtedly inspired the dream that sparked this novel.
Thanks to Uncle Greg, for giving me working-class suburbs near Stanford; to Andrew Collins and Hadley Williams, for helping me get Miriam arrested; to Will McWilliams, for answering financial questions and asking for novel updates at every financial planning meeting since; to John, for telling me about police procedures, even if I didn’t end up using them; and to Mike Holstein at the Green Bank Observatory for making time for a debut novelist. Someday I’ll get there to visit for real!
To my cousins, Hamilton, Martha, and Avery: thanks for helping me remember what it’s like to be a teenager. At forty-something, you think you remember, but you don’t—not really.
Thanks to WFWA friends who beta read and/or gave sensitivity readings—Denny Bryce, Micki Morency, and Nancy Johnson. I am so thankful to be part of this community!
Finally, to my agents, Sonali Chanchani and Claudia Cross, my advocates and cheerleaders, and to Jenny Chen, Melissa Rechter, Madeline Rathle, and the entire team at Alcove Press: thanks for giving Miriam wings!


Part 1
Atlanta, Georgia
If your heart is a volcano, how shall you expect flowers to bloom?
—Khalil Gibran


 1
Wednesday, April 27
ON HER THIRTY-EIGHTH BIRTHDAY, Miriam Tedesco received flowers from a ghost.
She didn’t need the blatant reminder that the universe hated her. She’d known for a year. And if she’d had any doubts, they vanished the moment she got called to lead music for a funeral on a day she should have been at home, nursing her own loss.
“Miriam!” the hospitality director greeted her at the door of St. Gregory the Great Church. “Thank God you’re here. I need the key for the janitor’s closet. A kid threw up in the cry room.”
“I—”
A second volunteer touched her shoulder, not quite meeting her eyes. “Miriam, the reserved signs are missing. Do you know where they are?”
“Hey, guys!” said one of her choir members. “Somebody’s gotta talk to those readers. They both have the same Scripture. It’s getting ugly up there.”
Miriam tried to point out that a Catholic funeral included two readings, and it shouldn’t be that hard to satisfy everyone, but her voice wouldn’t work. Heart pounding, roaring ears—was she having a panic attack? And why didn’t anyone seem to notice?
Usually, she relished the way people at St. Greg’s counted on her institutional knowledge, her competence, for things beyond her musical expertise. She’d worked here long enough to know a music director in a Catholic parish did much more than play music.
But it sure seemed like the good Lord could’ve cut her a break on the first anniversary of the day her husband and kids had died.
Too many colors—flowers burying the altar, and more arriving every minute. Too many people—the hushed conversations like a mosquito she could hear, but not see well enough to swat. The walls wouldn’t stand still. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the stained-glass saints ringing the church were laughing at her.
A firm hand gripped her elbow from behind, and a crisp voice addressed the volunteers. “Gentlemen!”
The men snapped to attention. For twenty-five years, that voice had tolerated no nonsense in St. Gregory parish.
“Becky,” Miriam gasped, clutching her best friend’s arm.
Becky Lindon, parish secretary and at sixty, a silver-haired force of nature, tightened her grip. “Gentlemen,” she repeated. “A little space, for heaven’s sake!” She fixed her fierce gaze on each of them in turn. “I realize everyone’s freaked out about hosting a funeral for a congressman, but it’s still just a funeral. You’ve all done this a hundred times. The reserved signs are in the front pew. I can see them from here. Here are my keys. Go clean up the puke yourself. And as for the readers, ask Father Simeon. Miriam doesn’t need to be dealing with that. Go on—scoot!”
The volunteers scattered. Becky turned to Miriam. Her embrace made the walls stop undulating and the stained glass stand still. “I’m so sorry you got called in today,” she murmured. “I won’t wish you a happy birthday, but I’m praying hard it doesn’t completely suck.”
Miriam snorted. “Too late.”
Becky’s grip tightened briefly. “Come on. You don’t have to sing. You don’t have to say a word. You just have to play the piano. It’s just another Mass, okay? Let’s get this thing done. The choir’s already warmed up.” Murmuring about a last-minute change the widow had made to the music list, she marched Miriam past two more floral delivery guys and a funeral home employee. In the music area, the ad