Chapter 9 #2
The man didn’t know what he asked.
“What holds you back from giving the band the best song either of us has ever played?”
“I’m afraid of her reaction. Afraid she’ll say the voice isn’t right for us.”
Caleb’s brows drew together, his gaze piercing. “It’s raw, vulnerable. The right voice for you. So stretch yourself. Trust yourself. Lead this band in a powerful new direction.”
Trust myself.
He had no idea how much she wanted to. To be more than a reasonably pretty face on a concert T-shirt. Not that Aunt Dahlia would permit the T-shirt…
“Run with it. Let’s play it right now. To become a serious leader, you need to take a risk when you see something good.”
“You’re pushing me way out there, Caleb.”
“Then think about this.” He leaned in and murmured in her ear, his voice deep, his warm breath tickling her cheek and sending shivers up her spine. “If your aunt rejects the song, record it solo.”
She swallowed hard as he moved back to a safer distance. “If I insist, it could bomb. If I go solo, it could bomb and hurt the band and my aunt. She wants this band to stay together as long as we’re both alive.”
“It’s not a marriage vow. Partnerships sometimes dissolve.”
Not in her world. Not with Aunt Dahlia.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime song. No other song will do what this one will for you and your career. Even for your relationship with your aunt.”
“Why our relationship?”
“Because she thinks of you as a child. She sets your schedule, and you live with her, even though you hit twenty-one a few years ago. You had to sneak around like a teenager just to record a solo album.” Caleb moved closer, widened his stance. “She won’t let you date.”
Ariel laid her fingers over her parted lips. Did he mean—he wanted a date?
“If you let her continue to make all your decisions, you’ll end up living in your Tennessee mansion together for the rest of your lives, alone.” He backed away a step then turned toward the makeshift stage. “Think about it.”
She’d think about it, all right. Especially the date part.
Aunt Dahlia strode over to Ariel. “Open the meeting, then we’ll rehearse.”
“I want to talk to you first. See, I have a new—”
“You’ll be fine. Just give it everything you’ve got.” She hurried back to Mr. Augo’s table at a near-gallop in her three-inch heels, her big hair bouncing.
She’d be fine? Not so sure about that.
Ariel grabbed her idea book and trudged to the center of the gathering.
The first topic on her agenda would bring pushback from her aunt, but they needed to talk about it anyway. “After our epic CMA win, we need to discuss ways to continue to improve musically and as a business.”
Ariel moved toward Aunt Dahlia and Mr. Augo’s table. “I know how you feel about merch. But we’re the only country band who ignores it.”
Aunt Dahlia let out a heavy sigh, her palm on her forehead. “Oh, Ariel…”
“Think of your ‘Miss Dahlia for President’ shirts we made during the last election. I saw them everywhere I went,” Paxton said in that squeaky alto voice you didn’t expect to hear in the music industry—not even from a band manager.
“You got 312 write-in votes just in Tennessee. How many people have done that?” Isaiah said. “It’s worth mild humiliation.”
She gave him her Miss-Dahlia-is-scolding-you look. “That’s because it’s not your face on everybody’s chest. I authorized those shirts only because my picture wasn’t on them.”
“Then let’s use the band’s name.” Paxton raised his strident voice. “Or put your faces on mugs and mouse pads and guitar picks.”
“Who would want a guitar pick with my face on it?”
“Your fans.”
She sighed. “It just seems so tacky.”
Well, that settled it. Once Aunt Dahlia declared something tacky, she never backed down.
Leaning closer to his date, or whatever Aunt Dahlia was to him, Mr. Augo gazed into her eyes. He lowered his voice to a hoarse near-whisper. “I’d buy a case of them and keep them all to myself.”
Ariel barely refrained from rolling her eyes.
When she’d covered every item on her agenda—except “Mercy Song”—she glanced at Caleb as he crossed the room toward her.
“I have a wonderful new song with a new style.” Ariel turned to Earl and caught the hope in his eyes. “It’s called ‘Mercy Song’ by Earl Butler.”
Her old friend tried to act as if her choice hadn’t affected him. But Ariel had a feeling it was the song of his heart, and his pleasure showed through his gruffness.
What was it about this island, this hotel?
It had turned Aunt Dahlia into a different person, seemingly overnight.
It had inspired Earl to write the best song of his career.
And had given Ariel courage to take the first step into her new role in the band.
Maybe a whole new role in life. These few moments of stretching her wings felt good.
And Aunt Dahlia would love the new song as much as Ariel did—she just knew it.
Few things in life made Caleb happier than the feel of a guitar in his hands.
Tonight, he’d brought his favorite. The one he’d left here twelve years ago, never having played it after leaving the music store where he’d bought it.
He hadn’t had a chance even to open the case since finding it in his parents’ apartment, and he couldn’t wait to hold it.
It wasn’t his most expensive or most impressive guitar but rather the one he’d scrimped and saved for during his freshman year of college.
Back when he went to the Red Cross and sold his plasma to pay off the guitar so he could come home and play with his parents and grandparents the night after Thanksgiving.
After that night, he’d never wanted to see it again, so when he went back to LA to join Drake’s band, he’d left it behind. But now, playing it on Ariel’s big night somehow seemed right.
In the parlor, with rain falling in sheets and blowing against the window walls on either side of the massive door, Caleb could hardly wait to take the guitar from its case and feel the smooth wood, the tight strings, and create the mystery of music with his friends.
White with a matching scratchplate, this guitar had never been played in the years he had it.
Standing next to Granddad at the upright bass, Ariel passed out sheet music to the musicians who wanted to use it instead of their iPads. Caleb preferred paper, so he grabbed a paper-clipped stack and took a seat in the back, where he’d left his guitar case.
The usual noise and chaos began as the musicians tuned guitars, violins, Dobro, mandolin, and electric bass. Drummer Keith Harper banged on his drum kit with the energy of a fifth grader.
Then came the unmistakable rich tones of the upright bass. Caleb turned toward the smooth sound. Sure enough, Granddad stood—stood—at his instrument, tuning with the rest of the band. Stopped and gave Caleb a thumbs-up, then played a pretty good walkup.
Caleb laughed and returned the gesture. Then he unlatched his case, opened it.
And found his father’s violin inside. The one he’d considered lost forever.
He blinked, fast. Stared down at the instrument.
Was this a joke? He raised his gaze and scanned the room, but nobody paid any attention to him.
Caleb looked at the instrument again. No mistaking its ownership or the ancient patina on the smooth wood as he ran his hand over the delicate instrument, where his father’s fingerprints no doubt still remained.
He lifted it from the case as if a deep breath might shatter it, and then he held it.
Just held it, taken aback by the feel of the instrument in his hands.
Caleb swallowed down the swell of emotion of both the lost and the found.
Then he noticed a lumpy bag in the case. He set the violin on the seat beside him and opened the soft bag and found a set of brass keys matching the ones Michelle had given him.
Except this ring held marked keys. Including keys to all the Kennedy apartments plus the attic and his father’s army dog tags.
Dad’s key ring. The one he’d given Ariel all those years ago—and she still remembered.
Which explained why the case hadn’t felt too light to be his guitar. He gazed at the tags a moment, then dropped the ring back into the case.
He turned around and looked at Granddad, who still stood at the bass, gaze fixed on his sheet music.
Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to show the violin to Granddad. Caleb reached for the bow and carried it and the violin to his grandfather. “Granddad, I found this in my guitar case.”
One look, and the tears forming in Granddad’s eyes proved he knew exactly what it was.
He swallowed, held out his hands. Caleb laid the treasure in his grandfather’s arms. The older man ran his fingers over the neck.
Then he put the chin rest to his jaw and drew the bow across the strings in a rich, nearly perfect arpeggio.
He glanced up at Caleb and smiled. Actually smiled.
Benny Wilson, rhythm player, echoed the notes, drawing a grin from Granddad.
Wait, what had happened to the guitar that was supposed to be in the case that held the violin? “Hang onto that,” he told Granddad.
Uncle Augo still sat at his table, his gaze never leaving Miss Dahlia as she worked the room while the musicians prepared to play.
Caleb made his way toward his uncle and sat next to him.
Pointed at his grandfather and whispered in Uncle Augo’s ear.
“I just opened my old guitar case—the one I had down here the night Mom and Dad died. Dad’s violin was in there. ”
His uncle’s eyes grew wide. “How’d that happen?”
“I hoped you’d have the answer. And know where my guitar went.”
Caleb glanced around the parlor. The musicians had gone silent, and Ariel stood ready to work, a little frown on her brow.
Well, shoot. Now he had to add to her concern by running to his suite to get a guitar. And how would he explain? The truth sounded ridiculous.
Or he could save time by getting Granddad’s old guitar from the fourth-floor attic.
“Ariel, I’ll be right back.” He grabbed the keys and ran up the staircase to the third floor, then opened the door to the attic steps and took them two at a time.
Out of breath after sprinting up three flights of stairs, Caleb slowed his pace and unlocked the door, the west-facing windows filtering the setting sun’s thin, dusty light through equally thin, dusty curtains.
A little musty-smelling now, the long, low room looked as though no one had come in since Grandma passed.
It held boxes, crates, and trunks labeled and arranged in neat rows against flowered-wallpapered walls, an old spinning wheel, a few sturdy-looking cribs, and wooden highchairs.
Ariel would love this room.
He headed for the shelf where he’d last seen the guitar—five years ago, when he’d carried Christmas decorations up here for Grandma.
He found the shelf empty and covered with dust.
Caleb stopped, sat on a wide windowsill. Apparently, Grandma had moved the guitar between Christmas and the following fall, when she’d passed.
So where would a woman with dementia put a guitar she hated?
During her lucid days, Grandma had said she didn’t blame the family that her son and beloved daughter-in-law had given their lives trying to save others. Insisted she didn’t blame God or Caleb or Granddad. Her cheerful demeanor unsettled them at the time.
Until a few years later, when she started to blame the music, although that hadn’t made sense.
If we hadn’t started music nights, my son and daughter-in-law would be alive.
If we hadn’t played carols that night…
If my son had stayed home and run the inn, as he should have, instead of playing music all over the world, he’d still be here.
At that moment, he knew where he’d find Granddad’s old guitar.
He crossed the room and opened the door to the little attic-within-an-attic his grandfather had made by building a wall across the gabled end. He’d used it to store items they wanted to donate to the mainland thrift shop.
Caleb grabbed the wooden knob, opened the door. Touched his phone’s flashlight button.
Sure enough, there the guitar sat, on top of a stack of yellowed tablecloths.
He reached for it, but a picture frame caught his attention. He set the guitar on the main attic’s floor, then lifted out the frame and read the document.
George Washington, President of the United States of America
To all to whom these presents should come, Greeting:
Know ye That, in consideration of military service performed by Elizabeth Jane Kennedy (a civilian Informant for three years for the Continental Army)…
there is granted by the said United States to Elizabeth Jane Kennedy a certain tract of land, containing one thousand acres situated on Jonathon Island, Michigan…
Here it was—his ancestor’s land grant. So his family history was true.
Won by her bravery as a spy for independence.
With all its formal, antiquated phrasing and unusual capitalizations, he easily understood the message: his tenth great-grandmother had risked her life and her young son’s life for love of her country.
Which, no doubt, led to love for this land, this inn.
Caleb set down the framed historical document, looked in the little attic room again, and found a shoebox-sized metal box with an old-fashioned clasp. He reached for it. Opened the clasp and lifted the lid to reveal heavy, folded white fabric with narrow blue stripes.
He pick it up and unfolded the material.
An old-fashioned Revolutionary War–era cap, like women wore when doing their daily work. Looking inside the box again, he found a note, handwritten in blue ink on crumbling paper.
Mob cap Elizabeth Jane Kennedy wore when first setting foot on Jonathon Island.
Somehow, as he sat on the wide-plank pine floor, holding the cap his so-long-ago grandmother had worn, he finally understood.
Elizabeth Jane risked everything for this place. Great-grandfather Chester Caleb bought back the inn, and Dad and Granddad gave up their music for it.
Caleb stood next in line.
For the first time, he saw himself for what he truly was—the trustee of a treasure. Island House Inn was both his past and his future. His legacy and his calling. Worth sacrificing for.
Still needing the guitar to fulfill his obligation to Ariel, Caleb gathered the instrument, the framed document, and the cap and started down the staircase.
Which suddenly and totally and completely unexpectedly now became—his staircase.