On our way up the stairs Mel babbled about her nana’s condition. But as we approached the landing, the door loomed ahead like a portal into another dimension. I hadn’t met a girl’s family since my senior prom. And even then, I only stayed long enough for the chick’s mother to fawn over my tux and snap a few pictures.

At the portal of doom, Mel turned to me, chewing nervously on her lip. “Did you get all that?” she asked.

I nodded dumbly, though I couldn’t recall a damn thing she’d just said.

When Mel slipped inside, I gathered the tree and the ornaments, wondering how in the hell I ended up here.

The answer came to me in a rush when I entered the living room and spotted Mel kneeling beside a gray-haired woman in a clunky wheelchair.

I’d come here to give Mel a gift, but instead she was giving me something more valuable: a glimpse into her life.

Propping the Douglas fir in the corner, I waited while Mel whispered softly in her nana’s ear. After prying the remote from the old woman’s hand, which took some doing, Mel swung her gaze to mine, motioning me over with a slight jerk of her head.

Hesitantly, I closed the gap.

The old woman still hadn’t moved, so all I could see was her profile as she stared straight ahead, clenching and unclenching her fists purposefully in her lap.

Tucking a finger under her nana’s delicate chin, Mel guided the woman’s face in my direction. Sparkling green eyes, worn by time and circumstances, met mine. The jade hue was a little dimmer, but the similarity was uncanny.

Drawn to the woman who had the eyes of an angel—just like her granddaughter—I took the final step and then dropped on one knee beside Mel.

“Nana, this is my friend, Christian.”

The woman jerked slightly and Mel’s irises lit like a thousand watt bulb, a wide smile breaking across her lips. I thought I knew all of her smiles, but this one I’d never seen.

My southern manners took over and I reached for her nana’s hand. “Hello, ma’am.”

The woman grasped my fingers with enough force to startle me. I’d met grown men with limper handshakes.

“I warned you,” Mel said to me out of the corner of her mouth. “She can’t control her grip. Especially when she’s excited.”

With a soft smile, Mel pried the woman’s fingers from mine. “Christian, this is my na—this is Marina Sullivan.”

Narrowing her gaze, her nana rasped, “M-mo.” Closing her eyes, she took a gulp of air, then repeated in a clearer voice: “Mo.”

Mel laughed at my confused expression. “She hates the name Marina, so everyone just calls her ‘Mo.’”

There was no mistaking the smile in the old woman’s eyes as she gazed up at her granddaughter. Something passed between them in the silence, and Mel snorted a laugh.

“Enough already,” Mel quipped, shoving to her feet. “You’re lucky I didn’t tell him to call you ‘Mrs. Sullivan.’”

Mo grunted, before shifting her eyes to the cup on the table.

With a mock sigh, Mel picked up the glass and then held the straw to Mo’s lips. “If you get drunk, I’m taking you straight home. That’s your second glass of wine.”

Mo took a sip and coughed, dribbling liquid on her chin.

Wiping the wine away without fanfare, Mel said, “Christian brought a tree. We’re going to need your help decorating it, so lay off the sauce, okay?”

The faintest smile ghosted the old woman’s lips as Mel turned her chair to face the wall where I’d placed the Douglas fir. Spotting the little tree, Mo jerked in her seat, her fingers working the fabric of her old gown furiously.

“She’s excited,” Mel whispered to me as I hauled to my feet. She smiled the softest smile she’d ever given me, then popped up on her tiptoes to peck my lips. “Thank you.”

Mo’s loud snort caught our attention. When it was apparent she was trying to choke out a few words, Mel rushed forward and lowered her head. After a long moment, she nodded, running her hand over her nana’s silver tresses.

Mel straightened, her eyes moist and a pink flush staining her cheeks. “Um . . . I’ve got to go find something in my closet. Could you start setting up the tree?”

“Of course.”

After cutting away the netting with my pocketknife, I set the small tree in the stand and then turned to Mo to gauge her reaction. Blinking at the tree, a fine mist gathered in her eyes.

She jerked when a loud crash sounded from the bedroom, her gaze darting to mine.

“I’d better go see what your granddaughter’s gotten into.” Mo’s watery eyes locked on mine and she blinked twice. When I cocked my head, she repeated the gesture and then cut her eyes to the bedroom.

Two for “yes,” one for “no.”

Some of the information Mel recited about her nana when we were on our way up the stairs came back to me. I guess the two blinks were Mo’s way of telling me to get my ass out of here and go help her granddaughter.

I gave her a quick nod and then did just that. Finding Mel on the floor of her bedroom in front of her closet sorting through a box, I knelt beside her.

“What are you doing?”

She turned to me in a panic. “I can’t find the ornaments and the scrapbook,” she babbled as she tossed item after item on the floor. “I know it’s in one of these boxes . . . I just . . . I have to find it.”

I touched her arm. “I bought ornaments. It’s—”

“These are special.” Her voice cracked. “I have to find them for her . . . I have to.”

Spying a box tucked into a corner on the shelf above Mel’s clothes, I stood up.

As I plucked the carton from its hiding place, I read the label on the side: “Nana’s things.”

Mel let out a relieved sigh as I placed the container on the floor. “Oh, thank God.”

She ripped open the flap, the air leaving her body in a rush as she peered inside. I dropped onto my butt and watched as she carefully removed a worn box of ornaments. She lifted the lid and then ran her fingers lovingly over the little glass globes and other items.

I tucked a swath of blond hair behind her ear. “Why didn’t you tell me, Mel?” She swung her gaze to mine, brows turned inward in confusion. “About your nana—you told me your family was gone.”

In lieu of an answer, Mel removed a large scrapbook from the bottom of the container. Placing it on the floor between us, she opened the purple cover embossed with butterflies and flowers.

A black and white photo of a girl with Mel’s eyes and smile stared back at me. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen. From the age of the picture, I knew it wasn’t Mel, though. It was Mo.

Under the image, the caption: “Once Upon a Time . . .” was hand written in calligraphy.

“I made this for her,” Mel said softly. “So she wouldn’t forget.”

She turned the page, revealing a collage of photos, some very old and some that looked almost recent.

“This . . .” Mel choked, brushing her fingertips over the pictures. “This is the woman I remember.” Sniffling, she looked up at me. “The woman in these pictures is gone. But I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you sooner. Because she’s still an amazing person.”

When Mel turned to the next page, I could feel the sadness wash over her like a tidal wave. She pointed to a photo of a man in his forties, perched on a stool in front of a keyboard on a small stage.

“This is my granddaddy.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “He died of a heart attack seven years ago. Two years before nana got her diagnosis.”

Shocked, I tipped forward for a closer look. “Was he a musician?”

When Mel didn’t answer right away, I peered up at her. Tears rolled down her cheeks freely.

Wicking away the moisture with the back of her hand, she nodded. “Yes, but he wasn’t famous or anything.” She met my gaze, smiling. “Not like some people I know. He just filled in whenever a band was short a keyboardist.” A proud grin replaced the sad smile. “He did work with the Eagles on the Hotel California album, though” She shrugged. “Along with a few other things. Taught me how to play the piano, too.”

Scooting closer, I rested my chin on her shoulder. “You play the piano?” I chuckled. “And you didn’t feel the need to share?”

She lifted her hand to cup my cheek. “So my stock’s risen because I can pound out a couple tunes on the keyboard?”

Mel’s stock rose every time she touched me. At the moment, she was worth more than my entire portfolio, sizable as it was.

She turned another page and stiffened, her back straight as a soldier.

I zeroed in on a photo of a woman who could pass for Mel’s twin. “Who’s that?”

“Harmony,” Mel replied with a sigh. “My mother.”

Harmony and Melody.

“Where is she?”

Mel’s already rigid body turned stone still.

“Most of her is scattered off the shore near Padre Island.” Mel dug through the container once again, producing a small velvet box. “But a little of her is right here.” She flipped open the lid, revealing a tiny brass urn no larger than her palm. “She died when I was five. Drug overdose.”

I wrapped an arm around her waist while her fingertip skated over the musical notes etched into the brass urn under her mother’s name.

“I’m . . . I’m so sorry, angel.”

Mel closed the velvet box with determination. “Don’t be. I didn’t really know her. My grandparent’s raised me since the day I was born.”

After a long moment, she turned her head slightly and our noses touched. “Go ahead.” The glimmer was completely gone from her eyes. “I know you want to ask something else.”

My lips brushed the corner of her mouth as I jumped to the next logical step on the journey she was taking me on. “What about your dad?”

She shuddered involuntarily. “I never met my father. Never even knew his name.” A bubble of humorless laughter tumbled from her lips. “But then, I’m not sure my mom did either. From what I understand, he was just some guy she hooked up with on one of my granddaddy’s tours.”

I pressed my forehead to her shoulder, wishing like hell I was anything but a musician. A guy like Melody’s father who hooked up with women on the road and never even bothered to catch their names.

“I’ve never had a one-nighter, so you’re going to have to tell me how it goes.”

Melody’s words from our first night rang in my ears. It was a miracle she didn’t lure me to her house and set me on fire, leaving me to burn like the asshole she probably thought I was.

Before I could help myself, I offered up a truth of my own.

 “You can have my dad if you want. He’s a math professor.” My lips ghosted the tattoo on her neck. “He’d love you. He doesn’t care much for me, though. So if you want to visit him in College Station, you’re on your own.” 

Mel twisted until we were face to face. “How could he not like you? You’re such a—”

“‘Disappointment’ is the word he likes to use.” Dropping my gaze to the shag carpet, I picked at the fibers. “But feel free to ad lib.” 

Cupping my cheek, she guided my face to hers. “I was going to say ‘brilliant musician.’” She smiled the same smile she’d used on her nana. “But you’re more than that.” 

After everything I’d just learned, it didn’t seem right that she was offering me comfort. So I returned the favor the only way she’d let me. Slipping my fingers into her hair, I cupped her neck and pulled her toward me. My lips met the side of her mouth, then blazed a trail down her neck to her collarbone.

“You’re amazing, Melody,” I whispered.

Autumn clung to her skin, warming my insides. And I wondered if she smelled the same in the summer, or if sunshine emanated from her pores.

I realized right then—I really wanted to find out.

Hanging the last ornament on the tree, I turned to Mo and Mel for their approval. Perched next to Mo’s chair, Mel nodded enthusiastically. “It’s beautiful, Christian.”

Mel’s hand rested on her nana’s lap, their fingers entwined. For the first time since I’d met Mo, her hands weren’t clenching and unclenching. The only movement came from her thumb, stroking Mel’s almost imperceptibly.

A baseball sized lump of emotion worked its way to the back of my throat at the sight of it.

Mo’s face was frozen in a mask, but her eyes danced with delight. She blinked at me twice, her lips twitching as she tried to form a smile.

“I’m glad y’all like it,” I said, as I stood back to appraise the tree.

Scattered among the expensive ornaments I’d purchased were the one’s Mel found in the box in her closet. A clay mold of her tiny handprint. A cardboard cutout in the shape of a Christmas tree, the red glitter nearly worn off. And my favorite by far, a golden angel kneeling in prayer with “Melody Rose Sullivan—1991” inscribed on the bottom.

“Turn on the lights!” Melody exclaimed, bouncing in her seat.

I found the end of the long strand of white bulbs and then plugged it into the extension cord.

“B-beaut—” Mo spluttered. Drawing her brows together in concentration, she swallowed hard and then choked out, “B-beautiful.”

Melody beamed and I had to turn away. It was heartbreaking, the way she hung on any small word that left her nana’s lips.

“What’s the matter?” Mel asked, wrapping her arm around my waist. “You don’t like it.”

“I love it.” I pressed a kiss to her temple, composing myself. “I thought you promised me some grub, though.”

Melody laughed. “I hope you’re not expecting much. I’m not really a good cook.”

She glided away to turn Mo’s chair toward the television. After a silent exchange, Mel put on a Lifetime Movie and then motioned for me to follow her to the kitchen.

Leaning a hip against the counter, I watched as Mel buzzed around the tiny cooking area.

Glancing at me while she stirred the gravy, she said, “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

I cut my gaze to Mo in the other room. “What does your nana have—ALS?”

Given my limited interaction with the woman, Lou Gehrig’s disease was the only thing that fit.

“It’s in the same family of diseases. It’s called PSP: Progressive Supranuclear Palsy.” Mel smiled ruefully. “Say that three times fast.”

“I’ve never . . .” I wracked my brain for any information and came up blank. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“You will.” Mel’s eyes sparked with determination. “It’s my second field of research. The protein I told you about at dinner that first night—Tau—that’s why I study it. It’s what causes PSP.” She lifted a shoulder. “Or at least, that’s the theory.” 

“They don’t know what causes it?” A chill ran down my spine. “Is it . . . ?”

She blinked. “Hereditary?”

Gripping the counter, I nodded. The thought of Mel paralyzed and motionless, trapped inside her own mind, was enough to cut me off at the knees.

“No.” The quick rush of relief evaporated when Mel added, “But there may be a genetic predisposition.” A frown tugged at her lips. “Someday, we’ll find out more. When there’s enough money for adequate research. That’s why I do the diabetes research. The school has funding for that since it’s in the mainstream. PSP is an orphan disease.”

“An orphan disease? What does that even mean?”

“Not enough people have it, and there isn’t any known treatment.”

The timer went off so Mel scooted away. Nose buried in the tiny oven, she poked the sad looking bird with a fork, frowning. “I don’t think it’s ready yet.” She closed the door and turned to me sheepishly. “Like I said, I’m not a very good cook.”

Wrapping her in my arms, I lowered my lips to her ear. “I’m not with you for your culinary skills, angel.”

She jerked her gaze to mine, shock painting her features.

From the beginning, we’d agreed we weren’t a couple—that we weren’t “with” each other in any permanent sense. From the look on Mel’s face, my statement was a little too cozy for her liking.

Slipping out of my hold, she glided out of the room and left me standing there, cursing my stupidity.

After a few moments, she called my name.

I dragged my feet on the way to the bedroom, hoping she wasn’t going to freak out and kick me to the curb for my awkward slip of the tongue.

When I walked through the door, Mel thrust the silk scarf in my hand.

I looked down at the swath of fabric. “What…?”

She shimmied out of her flannel pajamas and then offered me her wrists. “Tick-tock,” she said, an amused smile tilting her pouty lips. “We’ve only got a few minutes before I have to take the turkey out of the oven.”