Free Place Your Betts (The Marilyns) by Katie Graykowski Page A

nothing, really. I just… I don’t know. Hear things in my head.” His cheeks colored with embarrassment. “Like songs or parts of them.”
    “That’s not nothing.” Betts nodded to the guitar. Music was something they shared—a tentative bond between them, the first of many things, she hoped. “Let’s see if we can nail down what’s rattling around up there.” She pointed to his head.
    Tom’s face lit up.
    “Sure you have time? I don’t want to take you away from something important.” His eyes darted to the guitar. Tom practically vibrated with eager interest.
    “Right now, there is nothing more important than hearing your song.”
    Tom followed her back to the sofa, and they sat side by side.
    “You hum, and I’ll see if I can match the tune.” Betts picked up her guitar and closed her eyes. It was easier for her to concentrate on the notes if she shut out the world.
    Tom hummed a few bars, and Betts mimicked the tones. She opened her eyes, rummaged around for a pencil, and marked the notes on a blank sheet of music.
    “Do you hear words too?” The tune had the makings of a great song. Add in some drums, a fiddle or two, and a slow, jazzy backbeat… But it wasn’t her song. Betts swallowed her suggestions. Music was personal, and God knew she hated unsolicited advice.
    “Yes, ma’am, but not at the same time. Either the tune or the words come, but never both at the same time.”
    “Do you have words for this one yet?”
    “No, ma’am, not yet. The tune started up this afternoon.” Tom looked down at the sheet music as Betts finished writing the notes. “Does it ever drive you crazy?”
    “Absolutely. The only way to get it out of your head is to write it. Trust me, it’s taken me years to figure that out.” Betts sat back. “Is that all of it? This has the makings of a good song.”
    “Thanks.” Tom smiled broadly, and three dimples popped out. His father’s smile.
    “Would you like to stay for supper? I have a kitchen full of food. People have been bringing it all day. You’d be doing me a favor. I hate to see it go to waste, and I can’t possibly eat it all.”
    “I don’t know.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “What have you got?”
    “Casseroles, cakes, cobblers, cookies.” Only C words came to mind. Betts tugged on his arm and headed to the kitchen.
    “You weren’t kidding. That’s a lot of food.” Tom scanned the room, slowly taking it all in.
    Dishes, boxes, and trays covered every surface.
    “What would you like?” Betts opened the refrigerator. The inside light was eclipsed by pans of food. She peeled up a corner of aluminum foil. “Looks like chicken casserole, and that’s tuna.” She pulled out a Tupperware container. “This is vegetarian casserole—not sure what that means.”
    “That would be Ms. Anderson-Ritter’s famous tofu surprise. Last year she drove to Marfa to see the ghost lights and came back a vegetarian with a hyphenated last name. Ms. Gigi and I had a good, long laugh about her. Gigi always said vegetarian was the—”
    “Indian word for bad hunter.” Betts finished. She set the pan down on the table and closed the refrigerator. Tom really had known Gigi. Not that she didn’t believe him, it was just hard to imagine anyone choosing to spend time with the old woman. Maybe he knew the story behind the wall of framed photos?
    He lifted the foil on a nine-by-thirteen pan on the table. “Is that Ms. Smith’s heavenly hash cake?” His entire face lit up. So he was a chocoholic like Mama Cherie. Despite all of Mama’s annoying eccentricities, Betts hoped that Tom had gotten a little bit of his grandmother’s spirit.
    “I don’t know. Is Ms. Smith a short, round woman who favors sweater sets and looks like a blonde pit bull?”
    Tom grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded his head. “You’re right. Never thought about it, but she does look like a pit bull.”
    “She brought her daughter…Kailee or Kathy—“
    “Kaitlin.” Tom’s