Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Carlene claimed a corner of the barn where the light fell kindly and the power outlets behaved.
She plugged in, slid on headphones, and pulled up the bluff footage.
The first still was easy. Jami’s hands on the strings, tendons soft under skin, the guitar resting like it trusted him.
The second was a shot of his eyes lifted toward the horizon.
Not smiling. Present. The wind had tugged his hair just enough to make him look like he’d been standing in the day rather than staged for it.
She cropped tight, checked exposure, and fought the urge to make it perfect.
It wasn’t supposed to be perfect. It was supposed to look like a friend with a good instinct and a steady hand had taken it.
She saved the set, wrote a short caption with no hashtags, and scheduled the post for late afternoon.
In the wall opposite her, the rehearsal space reflected a soft blur of motion.
Axel worked his kit with patience, Maddyn and Livia ran scales, and Sean tuned and retuned until the guitar settled.
Jami sat on the low platform with Sunday and a pencil tucked behind his ear, eyes down, listening to something only he could hear.
Tony drifted over. “You look like mission control,” he said quietly.
“I am trying not to advertise that,” she said, and slid one ear cup back. “Stills go out in twenty minutes. I’ll watch comments for a bit, then cut the fifteen-second clip for tomorrow.”
“Good.” He glanced at the screen. “The label loved the radio pull. Carter sent a board tape already.”
“Nice.” She kept her tone neutral and let it land. Wins mattered, but the bigger win was in the room. The chorus had settled into everyone’s bones. You could feel it.
Tony followed her gaze to Jami. “He looks different today,” he said.
“Lighter,” she said.
“Yeah,” Tony said, then grinned. “Hanna just texted me a photo of a cinnamon roll. She said she’s naming it Trouble and saving it for Axel.”
“That tracks, and it adds humor.” Carlene smiled.
When Tony moved off, she scrubbed through the two bluff clips and marked the best fifteen seconds. No zoom. No title slate. Just his voice finding the line and letting it sit. She saved the cut and left it queued for the morning.
At three fifteen, she pushed the stills live.
Swallowing the knot in her throat, she took a deep breath.
This assignment was all she loved about her job.
A fun group of clients in a creative industry.
She also had the freedom to manage it as she thought best. The nightmare of her former firm, Reed & Carr, haunted her still.
Even years later. She looked forward to the day when that firm didn't creep into her thoughts and make her self-doubts bombard her.
She could still hear David's voice, cold and dismissive: If you can't handle pressure without questioning every decision, perhaps you're too naive for this level of work, Carlene.
Twelve senior partners watched as he dressed her down for catching discrepancies in the Hartman Industries account.
Discrepancies that would have cost the firm millions if she hadn't spotted them.
But instead of thanks, she'd gotten a public humiliation and a resignation letter drafted before she'd even left the conference room.
The first comments arrived in under a minute.
Locals, mostly. The bluff. The shirt. The ocean.
Someone’s aunt asking if the boy ever eats.
A kid from the high school music club tagging the club account.
Then the radius widened. A fan from Tampa who’d driven up for their last show.
A podcast listener who said Jami’s answer about town made her cry at her desk.
Nothing shrill. Nothing thirsty. Just people who felt like neighbors, even the ones two states away.
She watched the count tick. She watched the tone hold steady. It felt like the room at Mae’s had spilled onto the page.
Livia padded over and settled on the arm of Carlene’s chair. “You did it,” she said. “They’re talking like they live next door.”
“They’re the ones doing it,” Carlene said. “I just left the door open.”
Livia scanned the comments and nodded, satisfied. “We’ve needed this.”
“Agreed,” Carlene said.
Rehearsal shifted up a gear. Sean called a start.
Axel counted them in. The verse landed clean.
The chorus carried more weight than it had that morning.
Livia slipped into a high line, and Maddyn found a low thread that braided the thing into something that felt less like a song and more like a conversation with your favorite person.
Carlene forgot to breathe for a few bars.
They worked for an hour, took a break for ten minutes, then worked again.
When they finally let the last chord hang and fade, the barn sighed like it had been holding itself tall on their behalf.
The band drifted apart to water, texts, and a quick word with Tony.
Jami sat where he was and listened to the empty room.
He looked toward Carlene like he knew she’d been listening too.
“Wanna take a walk?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said, and closed the laptop.
They took the path toward the grove, the air warm and green. Somewhere below, the water worked the rocks. The shade smelled like citrus and the faint clean smell of rain that hadn’t fallen yet.
“I checked the numbers,” she said. “The stills are doing exactly what we hoped. Comments are friendly. Shares are mostly locals and fans who talk like locals.”
“Good,” he said. “It felt good.”
They walked a few more steps in quiet.
“I used to come down here when I got stuck,” he said. “Before the band, after the Army. I’d sit on the bluff and try to hear what I wanted. Sometimes it was nothing. Sometimes it was a line that changed my whole day.”
“Today gave you one,” she said.
“I did,” he said. “And seeing so many people at Mae’s felt like, I don’t know, a room I understood.”
“Rooms get easier when no one expects you to be a hero,” she said.
He huffed a laugh. “Except for the eight-year-old with the unicorn notebook.”
“She’s going to own us all,” Carlene said. “We should get her a T-shirt that says Future Problem.”
He smiled without looking at her, which felt more private than if he had.
They looped back to the farmhouse porch.
Quinn’s carpentry made everything sit right with the world.
The boards didn’t creak where you didn’t want them to creak.
The railing felt solid under your palm. A pitcher of water and sliced lemons waited on a tray like somebody’s grandma had walked through and decided the day needed tending.
Jami poured two glasses and handed her one. He sat on the steps and braced his forearms on his knees.
“You ever stay,” he asked, “in any one place?”
“For work,” she said. “Sometimes a month. Sometimes two. Long enough to fix what needed fixing.”
“And then you leave.”
“And then I leave.”
He nodded like he’d expected that. “Do you like it that way?”
“It keeps things clean,” she said. “No bad endings if you never start.”
He rolled the glass between his palms. “You know that’s not how endings work.”
“I do,” she said quietly.
They let the quiet sit. A lizard did push-ups on the porch rail like it had something to prove. Somewhere in the grove, a bird argued with another bird about a branch.
Jami finished his water and set the glass down. “About Phase 3,” he said. “I don’t want to borrow trouble. But if it ever gets to where a picture would help, I want to be the one to say yes or no. Not the label. Not a blog. Me.”
“It’ll be you,” she said. “I won’t do it without your say.”
He looked at her, checked to see if she meant it, and then let his shoulders drop a fraction. “Okay.”
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. The label’s digital team. She stepped away to take it, paced once along the rail while she answered questions, then returned.
“They want to know if we’ve got a time on the morning teaser,” she said.
“Seven,” he said. “People are up. Coffee’s in their hands.”
“Seven it is.”
He stood, then hesitated like he’d almost say something else and thought better of it. “I’m going to try the bridge one more time before dinner.”
“I’ll stay out of the room,” she said. “You don’t need an audience yet.”
“Maybe I do,” he said, with a half smile, then shook his head. “But not for the part I still can’t name.”
He walked back toward the barn with that steady gait he had on stage when the lights hit him just right. She stayed where she was and watched the day begin to tip.
Her phone buzzed again. A number she knew too well. She almost ignored it and then answered.
“Marla,” she said.
“Carlene. Heard you are in Florida, heard the chorus, heard the line. You’re building something. I can feel it.”
“I’m working,” Carlene said. “What do you need?”
“I’m calling as a friend,” Marla said, and the word made Carlene’s shoulders stiffen.
She’d worked with Marla at her prior firm.
No one there was her friend. “If you’re thinking of attaching a face to this story, be careful.
Once fans see a person, you never get to take that face back.
Not if the song hits. Especially not if it hits the way I think it will. ”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Marla said. “Because I remember the Nashville rollout. And the fallout.” The mention stung. Different artist. Different town. A story that had turned too sharp, too fast. Carlene had gotten them out, but not without scars.
“I know,” she repeated.
“Okay,” Marla said, softer now. “Then good luck. The stills are strong. Don’t oversell the clip. Let it breathe.”
“Thanks,” Carlene said and ended the call.
She stood on the porch until the shadows lengthened, then went back to the barn.
Through the doorway, she watched the band slide back into the song.
The bridge fought them and then surrendered.
The chorus carried more weight than it had an hour ago.
Jami sang like he had started telling the truth to himself and decided he could live with it.
She sat in her corner and drafted a post she wouldn't schedule yet.
Morning plans, it read. Then she deleted that and typed nothing. The line didn’t need an introduction. It needed space.
Livia came over as the others started packing up. “Dinner at our place,” she said. “Hanna’s sending over a tray, and I’ve got a salad that will make Axel think he likes greens.”
“I should finish a few things,” Carlene said.
“You should come eat food,” Livia countered. “We’re not letting you starve on my watch.”
Carlene hesitated. There were always a few more things. There was always another edit she could make in the name of control.
“I’ll come,” she said.
“Good,” Livia said, pleased. “Quinn wants to talk wood finishes with you because he thinks you understand color better than Tony does.”
“Tony thinks beige is a personality,” Carlene said, and surprised herself by laughing.
They walked out together. The sky went pink at the edges and then shifted to gold. Carlene slid her phone into her pocket and left it there. The stills kept ticking, quiet and kind, and the bluff clip waited for morning like a secret worth holding.
Tonight didn’t need a plan. It needed dinner at a table where people said each other’s names, passed plates, and let the day slow down. She could do that. She could try.
Tomorrow would be louder. Tonight could be the quiet between.