Her voice is mostly gone, now, warbling and frail. But she’s still a sight to see, even with an afghan thrown across her knees and her hair shock-white after ninety-odd years of age. She’s wearing her infamous coat of bright red lipstick. I’ve never seen her without it.
“That’s Bethany Hayes,” Ryder murmurs.
“Yeah,” I agree softly.
“Felicity.”
I look up. “What?”
“Why are we here?” He jerks his chin toward the piano. “You do realize, that woman is one of the most famous country singers to ever grace the stage. A Country Music Hall of Fame member. A two time Grammy winner.”
“Maybe toyou.” My lips twist. “But I generally just think of her as my grandmother.”