Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Alone in the suite that evening, Ariel wanted only to find a quiet, inspirational place to strum her guitar and sing her prayers before supper with the band, their writers, and their manager. Because if she hoped to figure out what changes would please Aunt Dahlia, she needed help. Serious help.
Help from heaven.
Unfortunately, her dated-looking bedroom in their spacious but uninspiring suite did nothing to boost her creativity. She reached to the other side of the bed for her guitar.
All I need is a plan to advance our brand, grow bigger, and reach more people with our music.
Her aunt’s words invaded Ariel’s every thought.
At home at their Nashville horse farm, she might have carried her guitar into the woods and sat beside the rocky creek, the tumbling waters adding percussion to her strings.
Or maybe sat on a stump in the pasture and made the horses listen.
As it was, the little brick porch off their suite would have to do.
Expecting the Lord to give her inspiration, she carried the guitar, her Bible, idea book, pen, and a glass of sweet tea through the living room.
Ready for the band and writers’ supper in an hour in her lilac knee-length cocktail dress and strappy white sandals, she’d left her phone charging in her room.
Passing Aunt Dahlia’s open door, she glanced in. Her aunt was gone, her white dress—the one she’d intended to wear tonight—still hanging on the hook next to the closet.
Now, what could that mean?
Out on the brick porch, the wind rustled through tall cedars, stirring up nearby lilacs and blowing their scent Ariel’s way as she chose one of the two white rockers. She set her book and tea on the glass-topped table between the chairs.
The secluded spot suited her—just a section of yard and some neglected flowerbeds.
No other porches, no other doors led to this hidden, rather shabby refuge.
In the distance, at the bottom of a gentle rise, sat the patio where she and Caleb had supper last night, far enough away that she could play and sing without disturbing anyone.
She rapid-tuned and played a simple chord progression. Then she closed her eyes, letting her fingers find the melody in her mind as she strummed the chords she heard in her head, in the key of C—the happy key—and murmured a little impromptu song to the Lord.
You come to me at night
When the shadows keep me awake
You come to me at morning
When the cares of the world steal my peace
You come to me at evening
And help me to walk in the Spirit
You come to me at night…at night…
Ariel sensed movement beside her and broke off the impromptu song. Caleb strode across the too-long grass, carrying his own guitar case and looking handsome in the setting sun, with his black suit and tie, white shirt, and what looked like onyx and diamond silver cufflinks.
“Caleb, how nice you look.”
That wasn’t flirty, was it?
His gaze flitted for a moment as he took in her dress.
A split-second twinkle lit his eyes. “Not sure about that, but thanks. You’re spectacular, though, as always.”
“My dress or my song?”
“Your eyes.” His gaze never wavered.
She melted a little inside, smiling her thanks. “Sit down if you have time.”
Caleb took the other rocker and set down his case.
Gestured at a narrow path of trampled grass leading from the corner of the building around to the front.
“I sometimes take this shortcut to a small, secluded side porch where I go when I need to play.” Caleb glanced at her Martin N-20.
“Looks like you came here for the same reason.”
“I came out here to pray and look for inspiration. This afternoon, my aunt decided I’m in charge of finding the band’s new look. Or sound. Or whatever she’s looking for.” Ariel strummed a random chord. “Something drove you out here too?”
Caleb blew out a breath. “My granddad. He found out I opened the third floor to guests without consulting him.”
“It made him mad?”
“Shouting mad. Every guest in the hotel probably heard him.” He hesitated. “I wish he’d stop. It hurts business.”
You mean it hurts your heart. “I’ve heard some people have a personality change after a stroke.”
“He and I have never harmonized.” Caleb kept his gaze averted. “He’s always been a harsh man.”
Oh. “I’m sorry. Families aren’t always easy to navigate.”
“You mean Miss Dahlia?”
“No, she’s a dream. So self-controlled. Never a cross word or awkward moment.” Should she tell him the rest? The part of their family dynamics that no one else ever saw? Probably not, but if she talked about it, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much anymore.
Quickly, before she could change her mind…
“I struggle more with relationships in my immediate family.”
“I remember Ethan and Charlotte from school. They weren’t close friends, but they seemed nice.”
“Yes, but we haven’t spent much time together since I left the island at age ten. Our lives are so different, with Ethan on the farm and Charlotte in New York. I don’t know anything about farming and even less about Charlotte’s ‘soil and land resources,’ whatever that is.”
He looked up, his deep-brown eyes warm. “Sounds as if you’d like to have more of a relationship with them.”
“I would. But seeing each other two or three times a year doesn’t make it easy. When Aunt Dahlia and I aren’t touring, we’re in Nashville, learning new songs and recording. Mama and Daddy come to our Midwest concerts every year, if we schedule them close enough to northern Michigan.”
Caleb leaned nearer, his gaze never breaking.
It felt safe to tell him more.
“Aunt Dahlia decided to hang with your uncle this afternoon, so I rented a bike and rode out to the farm for lunch. I timed the visit wrong, because my nephew Sam’s new behavioral problems distracted us all so much, we couldn’t say more than a few words.
” She looked toward the tall spruces dividing the yard from the street, unsure how to keep the hurt from her eyes.
“Mama wouldn’t let me help with the meal, as always, and Daddy seemed sullen. It’s not like him.”
“Sounds like an awkward lunch.”
She nodded. “Mama says Daddy and Ethan have started working the farm again physically, but emotionally and mentally, he’s retired. Apparently, he spends every mealtime and evening paging through travel magazines.”
“He read while your family ate together?”
The way he said it made her realize how dysfunctional they’d become. At least, when Ariel came around. A far cry from the “perfect” family the rest of her Sullivan relatives thought they had. “I think they simply don’t know what to do with me.”
Caleb sat with her in silence, nearly motionless. Quietly comforting her, allowing her time to think and pray. Somehow, he seemed to know exactly what she needed. Time. Acceptance. Silent support.
Finally, at exactly the right moment, he laid his hand on hers, where it rested on the arm of the rocker. “I heard you playing as I walked across the lawn. What was that song?”
“Just a prayer song.”
“I like to sing prayers too. Care if I play along?”
After he’d tuned, Ariel again strummed the chords she’d played earlier. For a few moments, he watched the placement of her fingers on the fretboard, clearly discerning her key and chord progression. Then he finger-picked his strings along with her.
Maintaining the beat and tempo, she sang again the lyrics of just moments before. The second time around, he sang a tight bass harmony.
Then Ariel came to an abrupt stop.
Caleb’s head jerked up, his eyes wide. “Why’d you quit?”
She laughed at his intensity. “That’s all I got.”
His smile came calm, cool, making his eyes crinkle a little as he set his guitar on the table and leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee. “I thought I’d butchered the song so much you had to cut it short.”
She’d never met a man this easy to sit with, to talk with. Even joke with.
Then again, although she met a lot of men in her job, she rarely spoke with one alone.
Thank her watchdogs for that.
“What if we add a jazz flavor? Turn the chords into major sevenths and then add a lot more chord changes and some blue notes and go from there?” He played the licks and turned out a sweet jazz sound.
Perfection.
“How did you know exactly what the song needed?”
“Just a love for jazz, I guess. I discovered it in seventh grade. Before that, I thought all music was hymns and worship songs, rock, and classical.”
“Why classical at such a young age?”
“My mom was an orchestra conductor when we lived in LA, and Dad was concertmaster. Before I was born, they worked for Philharmonie de Paris.”
“Our musical backgrounds couldn’t be more opposite—classical and country.”
He played a few bars of a decades-old Miss Dahlia song, bending notes and adding twang. “Both have their strengths.”
“I had no idea you could play country. But I should have guessed, since you’re one of the most versatile guitarists on the music scene.”
“I don’t know about that.”
In the silence that followed, a fresh breeze blew in, bringing the sweet scent of lilacs she’d begun to love to the patio. And, no doubt, to the guests sitting on the front porch enjoying the harbor view.
“Can you see the lake from your secret porch?” She looked that way, but the building blocked her view.
“Nope. That’s what makes it secret. Why?”
“I haven’t had a chance to check out the view. I think I’m missing out.”
He glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s almost sunset. Want to watch it?”
With a man who had enough style to wear a wristwatch with a suit instead of pulling a phone from his pocket to check the time? Absolutely.
Aunt Dahlia would have a fit, but…