Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
Go get your girl!
Jack
There’s room for one more.
I read Dixie’s text until the words are burned into my brain. Read it again. Then once more, like that will change what it means.
It feels like an olive branch. Or maybe I’m just telling myself what I want to hear.
She has bubbles up to her chin in that picture, shoulders bare, wearing that half smile of hers—the one that says she’s flirting but trying not to care if I flirt back.
She looks soft. Tired, too, like she’s pretending real hard that she doesn’t miss what we had.
I stare at that photo longer than any grown man should, trying to decide if I’m reading it right.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don’t know what to do next. I can’t fix this. Can’t rush in and make it better, much as I want to.
The front door slams hard enough to rattle the windows. Deacon strides into my kitchen without so much as a knock, which annoys the hell out of me. I flip the phone over. Last thing I need is him seeing what I’ve been staring at.
He drops a large box on my table with enough force to make my coffee slosh right over the rim of my mug, then falls into a chair like the world’s been riding his shoulders all day. “Special delivery.”
I know what it is from the return address. Dixie’s guitar. The one her granddaddy gave her.
I’d been looking forward to handing it to her, seeing her face light up when she had it back. Now I can’t picture anything. Can’t get excited about it. Hell, maybe I’ll just mail it to her agent and call it done.
I open the box because sitting there staring at it isn’t doing anybody any good. Plus, Deacon’s hauled it over here. Least I can do is look.
The case inside is beat to hell—old leather, faded sticker peeling off the back, a busted latch.
It doesn’t look like much, but I know better.
I lift it out careful-like. Dixie played this guitar.
I can picture her as a kid, smaller but still scrappy, and full of dreams. Her fingers must have barely stretched across the frets.
She never lets go of anything, this woman.
She holds on with both hands and all her heart.
I love that about her—the way she fights for what she wants, the sarcastic smile she wears like armor, the drive that never quits.
And God help me, even as fast as everything’s happened between us, I want to spend the rest of my life learning all the things I don’t know about her yet.
“Welcome,” Deacon says, like he’s prompting a toddler. “Thank you would be nice.”
I ignore him. The strings seem loose. The wood’s worn smooth where someone—a small girl with big dreams—played it down to nothing.
“Damn,” I mutter.
“You gonna sit there and stare at it all or night, or are you gonna go get your girl?”
I look down at the guitar again.
Ten minutes later, I’m online, scrolling through venue schedules until I find what I’m looking for: Dixie Pearl—TONIGHT—3rd & Lindsley.
There are twelve tickets left and I buy every last one.
* * *
The church van stays with Slate because there’s no parking left. 3rd & Lindsley has a small lot and it’s packed tight. When we pull up, Slate points toward the door and grunts something. I take it to mean Go on ahead, save me a spot. He pockets the ticket I hand him as I climb out.
This isn’t exactly church business, but I’ve invited most of the choir along.
They haven’t asked too many questions—the chance to hear Dixie sing is reason enough to pile into the van on short notice.
Soon as they all get out, they look to me like I have the answers.
I’m the mama duck to their baby ducklings in this scenario.
I’ve been pastoring Wickham Hollow Chapel long enough that they trust me to know where we’re going.
Enough to drive several hours to Nashville, anyway.
I hand out tickets and lead them inside.
3rd & Lindsley has that warehouse feel—high ceilings and an industrial vibe.
It’s more of an oversize dive bar rather than a theater with rows of seats, with tables scattered around the main-floor level and a balcony wrapping the upper level.
Since I bought what was left of the tickets, we aren’t sitting together.
The room is packed with people. I get everyone settled and then leave Deacon holding down a two-top right in front of the stage.
I have maybe fifteen minutes before the show begins, so I start looking for the backstage entrance. It’s a small, curtained-off side door that must lead to a green room and a loading area. A staff member in a black T-shirt and headset stands in front of the curtains, steering people away.
“You with the band?” He eyes the guitar case in my hands.
“Delivery.” I hold it up. “This is Dixie’s.”
Sure, buddy, his look says.
“That right?”
“Yeah.” I open it so he can see it’s not packed full of taxidermized animals or dead flowers “She might want this tonight.”
I should’ve said I was the delivery guy.
He takes it anyway. “You need me to sign for it?”
I shake my head. “No, just make sure she gets it, please.”
The guy is already on his headset, paging someone to come collect it. Mission accomplished, I go back to my table.
Deacon’s got beers waiting. He’s staring at his phone but pushes a bottle toward me. Then he raises the phone and takes a picture.
“What’s that for?”
“Memory book,” he says. “You’ll want to remember tonight.”
“The show? Should be great.”
“Not the music, jackass.” He gives me a look. “I’m talking about the Jack Carter drama. The preacher-in-love show. The—”
I cut him off. There’ll be more where that came from anyway.
“I want a really fancy one—an actual, physical book. No cheap digital crap.”
“Already ordered it,” Deacon says with grin. “Hot-pink scrapbook that says THE STORY OF US! Should be here by the time you two get back from wherever you’re gonna chase her to.”
I hope so.
The lights dim and the crowd gets quiet.
And I sit there with my heart hammering, waiting to watch the woman I love walk out on that stage and light the whole place up.
Dixie
“The minute you step foot out there, you’re a star,” my agent tells me as I stand up. “A spot on a huge tour just opened up and it’s yours.”
I smile, nodding my happiness because I’m supposed to be deliriously happy. High-five her and tell her what an awesome job she’s done representing my mopey ass, but I can’t be bothered because I left my heart in Wickham Hollow, dammit.
My agent natters on about how I’ll hit the road ASAP, record, and do a billion professional things that will turn me into a legit country music star. I smile some more. My jaw’s about to crack.
If I could go back in time, I’d pick life with Jack over life on the road. Holy shit, what’s happened to me?
My manager pats my arm. “Overwhelming, isn’t it?”
“What if it doesn’t pan out? What if my songs don’t hit?” I already know that “Hot for Preacher” has charted and the play time that “Touch Me with Those Morals” has been getting virtually guarantees I’ll see my name on there twice.
“You’ve got this.” She pats my arm again.
She may say something else, but the green room’s wall-to-wall chaos.
It’s dimmer than an airline cabin at midnight.
Water bottles, trays of snacks, and a stray fifth of bourbon litter the tabletops and gear cases line the wall where someone Sharpied brEAK A LEG.
It’s super loud, with people talking and yelling, tuning guitars and laughing.
Someone’s drummer bangs out a beat on the table and the dull roar of the crowd bleeds through the walls.
The stage manager hovers in the doorway—it’s time to go.
“Ms. Pearl?” Someone in a black T-shirt and headset—a staffer—holds out a guitar case to me. PEARL is scratched into the top in uneven block letters. I take it automatically while my manager huffs next to me. My guitar is onstage. It’s in her notes, so this is a screwup.
I open the case.
Heads will roll, blah blah blah, conversations will be had. Except—
It’s not my guitar at all. It’s the one my granddaddy taught me to play on, the one I haven’t seen since I pawned it eight years ago because I had to raise money for my demo track. If my life was a movie, I’d have shot to stardom right then and there and yet I didn’t.
The edges around the sound hole are worn but still ringed in rosettes. Stylish, or so my granddaddy claimed. We both loved roses, their bright colors and overwhelming scents. He’d cut them from the bush in the front yard to bring to Grandma.
Someone shoved a note inside the sound hole. What kind of amateur-hour bullshit is this? That’s literally the worst possible place—it’ll scratch the interior wood and fuck with my sound. Do people not understand how instruments work?
The stage manager’s barking Five minutes, people!
as I fish the paper out, trying not to curse at whoever thought this was a good idea.
But I already know who it is before I unfold the thing.
There’s only one person who knows about this guitar and would pull some misguided, wonderful romantic gesture like this.
Jack. Of course it’s Jack.
That man understands exactly how much this meant to me—we talked about it, I told him about selling it and how I had a few, very occasional regrets. Like every damn day. So naturally, he went and did the impossible and tracked it down for me.
His handwriting is still the same disaster it’s always been. For a man who takes his sweet time with everything else, he writes like he’s being chased by wolves. All scrawled together, letters crashing into each other like they can’t wait to get to the end of the sentence.
You said this guitar helped you find your voice. I hope it reminds you how strong you are—and how much you mean to me. Love, Jack.