Chapter Thirteen
Beckett
“Beckett!” Ezra looks ridiculously happy to see me. In fact, despite his somewhat menacing appearance at first glance, this guy could be the poster child for that “small town hospitality” Mr. Prenchenko told me about.
A good reminder to never judge a book by its tattooed cover. Fittingly, today, he’s wearing a graphic t-shirt with the logo of a 90s punk band on the front.
“Hiya,” I greet him with a smile as I head towards the back of the store. Blue Notes is empty again, and instead of standing behind the cashier’s desk, Ezra is sitting on it while eating salad from a cardboard container.
“Sorry, I was just on my lunch break,” he says, setting down the container. He gestures around the store with a smirk. “Busy morning, as you can see.”
“Do you own the place?” I ask, almost hoping for his sake that the answer is no .
He senses the poorly veiled concern in my voice and laughs. “I do. But don’t worry, we do make some money… just not necessarily from retail.” He jumps off the counter and beckons me to follow him down a narrow hallway and through a door into a back section of the shop.
He flicks on a light switch, illuminating a back hallway with windows on either side looking into what appear to be spacious, private rooms. “We offer music lessons in these rooms in the afternoons and evenings—usually guitar, piano, and drum lessons. There’s also a concert violinist who comes through town every once in a while and gives lessons when he’s here.” He throws a grin over his shoulder. “So if you, for some reason, decide to stay instead of going home after your vacation, you’re always welcome to teach lessons here.”
“I’d actually love to give some lessons while I’m here,” I offer. “If you need any extra teachers, that is.”
“Hey, that’d be great. Thanks, man.”
“Not like I have much else going on,” I joke, and as he shuts the door on the last lesson room, he gives me a smirk.
“I saved the best for last…”
At the end of the hallway, Ezra gestures with a flourish towards the last and biggest window. I look inside and am shocked to see a recording studio.
An actual, state-of-the-art recording studio, with high-tech equipment and a drool-worthy set-up. A plaque above the door reads “Lucky 13 Studios.”
Lucky, indeed.
I’m exceedingly jealous of Ezra’s business, which is clearly so much more than just a music store. This guy’s got his act together, that’s for sure.
Ezra takes in my expression and grins. “Thought you might appreciate it.”
“ Appreciate it?! This is incredible. I’m like a little kid in a sweet shop—er, candy store, as you’d say here.” In fact, it’s all I can do not to press my nose up against the glass as I peer into the sleek facility.
“We get people coming from all over to record here. It’s where the magic happens, to use that cheesy old line. In fact…” Ezra pauses for a moment. “We recently had a certain very-well-known Irish gentleman in here to record a single for his upcoming album. Must’ve heard about the legend of luck here in Serendipity Springs and thought he’d try his hand.”
“We can be a rather superstitious bunch.” I laugh, wondering who it might have been but not wanting to ask, and then add without thinking, “I’d give my left arm to record in here.”
”You want to book some slots?”
Ezra’s question catches me weirdly off-guard. Back before Gran died, I wrote most of an original album, and when I would play at the local pub, I’d alternate between popular covers and trialing my originals on a small—admittedly drunken—audience.
Sometimes, I’d think about what it might be like to record my own music.
But I don’t think about that anymore.
In the past year or so, all my creativity has dried up. Shriveled away. The music in me now feels like an itch I can’t scratch, buried too deep to access.
I never finished my album.
There was no need.
I’ve got a real job that I’m grateful for.
“Nah,” I tell him with a half-smile. “Thanks, though.”
“What about signing up for the Indie Music Night?” he asks without missing a beat.
I laugh. “Keeley talked to you?”
“She did. She said you’d come see me and mention some nonsense about helping with sound, but she was very insistent that I try to persuade you to play instead.”
“Of course she did.”
“So, will you? Play something, I mean?”
I study the toe of my sneaker for a moment. I meant what I said to Keeley in the laundry room a few days back—I have thought about performing in the Indie Music Night.
And while I came here today with the intention of telling Ezra I’d help out with sound and behind the scenes stuff, I’ll admit a part of me is still thinking about playing.
“Is everyone gonna be playing original music?”
Ezra’s eyes spark with delight. “A mix of things. Feel free to do a cover if you want.”
It’s probably just a sugar high from consuming a lunch of the waffles and chocolate cereal Keeley absolutely insisted I buy. But I feel like this is something I can do.
It’s strange. Lately, that deep-seated itch in me to play music almost feels like it’s moving closer to the surface again.
It’s something I can hardly dare to hope for. But if I play a cover, there’s no pressure to channel that creativity again. I can simply just play a familiar song and help Keeley’s friend out in the process.
“Maybe something Irish?” Ezra suggests, bringing me back to the present. “People would go nuts for that.”
Steve Earle’s “The Galway Girl” immediately comes to mind—a song about a man who meets a beautiful woman with black hair and blue eyes, and even though he’s not looking for love, he can’t help but be totally charmed by her.
The thought makes me smile.
“Sure,” I find myself saying.
“Nice!” Ezra says, looking genuinely pleased. “Nori will be so happy to fill the last spot.”
He starts talking me through some details, and I nod along, mind whirring with a mix of nerves, trepidation, and excitement, when Ezra casually says, “Keeley will also be helping out, of course.”
“Makes sense. She and Nori are good friends.”
Ezra smirks knowingly. “You two have been hanging out, huh?”
“A little. Sometimes,” I say, because that’s easier than telling him that we were locked in the laundry room together for an hour yesterday after I found her in yet another state of partial undress, and that I picked her up from the roadside earlier and basically kidnapped her to be my shopping partner.
A shopping trip that made me the proud owner of an I’m A Spring Chicken! reusable tote bag.
Ezra and I wander back to the main floor of the shop, and he picks up his salad container again. “I’m glad she has someone watching out for her in her building. Especially now that she and Andrew have broken up.”
I frown at the mention of his name. “What’s the deal with that Andrew guy, anyway?”
“They dated for ages, but their relationship always felt… off to me.” Ezra’s eyes darken. “Like something didn’t quite fit.”
“Oh?” I ask, trying not to look as keen for details as I feel.
“I think he was just the wrong person for her, and she was trying to make it right for so long that it was habit by the end. After they broke up, she seemed to wake up and consider what she really wants. I feel like he was holding her back in a lot of ways.”
I remember what she said about the article she had to write to get her dream job, and I lean forward, curious to know more about Keeley’s plans. “Holding her back career-wise?”
“Yeah. Partly. I was happy when she told me she was applying for a job in Boston. It’ll be a fresh start for her.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize the job was in Boston.”
For some reason, the thought of her moving away makes me feel… strange. Just for a moment, until I snap back to reality and remember that in a few short weeks, I’ll be leaving, too, and we won’t be neighbors anymore.
Ezra’s blue eyes—so like Keeley’s—are steady on me. “You like her, don’t you?” he asks bluntly.
I swallow. Consider the question.
I do find myself drawn to Keeley in a way that I’m not used to feeling. But I barely know the woman. And when I go back to Ireland, how I feel about her—or don’t feel about her—will be an entirely moot point.
“We’re just friends,” I reply firmly.
“Uh-huh,” he counters with a twinkle in his eye, like he very much doesn’t believe me.
A twinkle that makes me question if I even believe what I’m saying myself.