Free Place Your Betts (The Marilyns) by Katie Graykowski

extended his hand.
    Betts blinked. “Tom, Tom Swanson.”
    He was here, standing on her front steps.
    Her heart thundered like a metronome marking the years she’d been separated from him. Her eyes swallowed him—drinking in every detail as her hand went to the locket containing his hair. He was handsome in a bookish way. Intelligent blue eyes—from his daddy—unruly red hair—hers—and a straight nose that looked a lot like Mama Cherie’s. Her arms ached to hold him. He’d been born with a red birthmark—the nurse had called it an angel kiss—behind his left ear. Was it still there? She reached up to touch his hair but jerked her hand back. She was nothing to him. Not yet.
    Betts looked down at his outstretched hand. She should shake it, but it took a second for her mind to instruct her hand to grasp his. “House would you like in to come….” She shook her head. “I mean, would you like to come in?”
    “Yes, ma’am, but I can’t stay long. I just got off work, and my dad said that it would be best to come by before the crowd outside got any bigger.” Tom stepped across the threshold. He looked around and then zeroed in on the coffee table. “Are you writing a song?” His eyes held so much boyish wonder it was hard to believe that he was almost an adult.
    Gabe had sent Tom? Gabe was fairer-minded than she would have been in this situation.
    “Yes. Sort of. Trying to. The tune hasn’t quite worked itself out.” Betts couldn’t stop looking at him. Her son was here in the flesh, standing before her. He was real. The baby taken from her arms so long ago was right here. Her soul longed to pull him in for tight hug and squeeze him for the next year or two, but since that would probably make him run for the hills, she stepped back.
    What exactly was the protocol for reuniting with the love child she’d given away at birth?
    “Wow. That’s cool. Sometimes music knocks around inside my head, but I ignore it. Dad’s not into music. Says it’s a waste of time.” Tom picked up her guitar. “You play. That’s cool.”
    Anyone else would have lost a finger for touching her prized guitar. Tom could burn it for kindling for all she cared as long as he let her look at him. The ghost weight of a newborn asleep on her shoulder tugged at her heart. Besides the handshake a moment ago, that had been the only touch she’d ever shared with him.
    “Would you like to learn? I could teach you.” Betts stacked the sheet music. “Or if you don’t want me, I could pay for lessons. Do you play the piano? That’s a good place to start. I could teach you. Do you like the piano? Piano is good. Real good and um…nice. All those white and black keys.” Words fell out of her mouth. She couldn’t seem to stop them.
    “I like it fine, I guess.” He slid his hands in the back pockets of his Levis. “I’d like lessons, but my dad wouldn’t understand—”
    “Music is a gift. It shouldn’t be wasted.” There. That made sense.
    “I think so too, but my dad’s a hard case. Plus, I don’t have time. Between work and school and the ranch, I don’t think I can do it.” He stepped toward the door. “I’d better be going. Sorry about your grandma. She was real proud of you.”
    Tom was leaving? No, he just got here. She wanted to stare at him for the next two months and find out how his mind worked, what his favorite food was, and whether his red hair was as soft as she remembered.
    “Um… work. Where do you work?” Betts stepped between his lanky body and the door. Would it be too obvious if she locked it?
    “Down at the feed store. After school and some weekends. It’s gas money.” He stood up straight, grinned from ear to ear, pride radiating off him in waves. “I’ve got my own truck.”
    “Wow.” Betts hoped she sounded suitably impressed. “Tell me about the music in your head.” Anything to spend a few more minutes in his company.
    Tom hunched his shoulders and grinned sheepishly. “It’s