Chapter 2 Hunter #3
“I’ve been thinking maybe so,” Wes said. “It would be fun to work with her and you. We could make something really special.”
“When will she be here?” I asked.
“Next week,” Margaret said. “She wants to hole up here like the old days.”
“We wrote some good songs together,” I said.
“And you’ll write some more good ones,” Wes said. “The two of you have always brought the best out of each other.”
“Jack Wilder’s people called. They want to record a duet with him and Ivy,” Wes said. “Asked if you had anything they could consider.”
Jack Wilder’s career had taken off in the last five years.
Before leaving Nashville, I’d written a few hits for him, one which catapulted him into one of the biggest country singers out there.
Ivy and I met him in person a few years back at one of the award shows.
“Ivy was enamored with him, which was pretty funny. Usually, she’s impervious to men.
” I chuckled at the memory. “She was tongue-tied, which I’d never seen. ”
“He’s wicked handsome,” Margaret said.
“Jack’s good people,” I said. “And he has a great voice. But you know I don’t have anything for them.”
“Maybe something will come to you, once Ivy’s here,” Margaret said.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Jacks’ single now,” Margaret said. “I just read it in People magazine. Broke up with that actress. The one from that detective show set in Hawaii?”
“Sure, yeah.” I had no idea who she was talking about.
“Anyway, maybe they’ll fall in love while recording one of your songs,” Margaret said.
“You never give up on love, do you?” I asked.
“Not a chance.” Margaret smiled at me from across the table. “You look tired. How was your night?”
“Seraphina came in with her son. Tyler. He asked me to give him guitar lessons.”
Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Lessons? Do they know who you are?”
“Yeah, they do. But around here it doesn’t matter. I’m just a bartender who plays guitar.”
“You’re more than that, but okay,” Margaret said. “And Seraphina Sinclair is someone worthy of you.”
I shook my head, grimacing. “I told her I read all of her books over the winter. Just blurted that right out like an idiot.”
“I would think she’d be flattered,” Margaret said.
I shrugged and picked up my glass. “Anyway, I told them yes.”
Margaret tilted her head to one side, studying me. “Interesting.”
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Margaret gave me one of her sassy smiles.
I drank the last of my wine. “I should turn in. It’s getting late.”
“Have a good rest,” Margaret said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
I said goodnight and then let myself out into the chilly April night, thinking about Ivy and guitar lessons and a certain redheaded romance author who made my knees weak.
The cottage was a two-minute walk across the lawn, past Margaret’s herb garden that wafted scents of lavender and thyme as I passed by.
I stood for a moment just outside the front door of the cottage Wes and Margaret were kind enough to let me occupy for the foreseeable future.
The sky was clear tonight, glittering with stars.
I looked directly up at the Milky Way, bright outside of the city lights.
Below the cliff, waves crashed against the craggy hillside.
Wes and Margaret had built the cottage for Margaret’s mother, who had lived with them for the last years of her life. Gray weathered shingles adorned the outside, mirroring the main house, with a modest porch where Margaret's mother had liked to have her coffee.
Like Margaret, Muriel had been feisty and spry. Even at the end of her days on earth, she could beat anyone at scrabble and tend to the rose garden she’d planted outside the cottage.
I went inside, turning on just one lamp and pulling my wallet and keys from my pants pockets and dropping them in the bowl I kept by the door.
Muriel’s cottage—that’s how I always thought of it—reflected her esthetic.
So much so that I could sometimes feel her in the small spaces she’d loved.
When Wes had offered to build her a place on the property, she’d agreed, but insisted that, as much as it was possible, he use repurposed elements. “Old, like me,” she’d said.
Exposed beams, rough-hewn and salt-bleached, had come from an old farmhouse.
The walls were decorated with shingles from a torn down beach cottage, warm and textured in the lamplight.
A cream sofa had been reupholstered. The coffee table was a slab of reclaimed wood.
Dishes were a mix of styles she’d found mostly at yard sales. The list went on and on.
I walked through a narrow doorway into the charming kitchen, with sage green cabinets that had gone slightly chalky with age and a farmhouse sink under a window that looked out toward the garden.
Open shelves held mason jars of grains and dried beans that Margaret had stocked before I’d arrived, suggesting an optimism about my cooking and eating habits. So far, the jars remained full.
I filled up a water glass before heading to bed.
The bedroom was at the back of the cottage, quiet and calming with pale blue walls.
After brushing my teeth, I climbed into bed.
The quiet here had taken some getting used to.
At first, the night had seemed vast and empty, but, after a few months, I grew accustomed to sounds of the country.
In fact, I’d slept better in this room than anywhere I’d ever lived.
My Taylor guitar, Georgia, rested in its stand near the window, calling to me like an abandoned lover.
In the past, on a night like this, with the starlit sky and scents of spring, I might have stayed up and written a song.
However, the muses had stopped visiting.
I wondered sometimes if they didn’t like this quiet life I’d chosen.
They begged for chaos and heartaches. But I’d left those behind in Nashville.
Seraphina popped into my head. I was fascinated by the woman, especially having read all her books.
I wanted to know more about her, where she got her ideas, how much of herself was in her fiction.
Writer to writer. She was enchanting, with all that red hair and those freckles and big green eyes that appeared to soak up every detail of the world around her.
Was she seeing anyone? I didn’t think so.
We’d been at a lot of the same social functions since Vance and Lila married, and she never brought anyone but Tyler with her.
In an attempt to find husbands for their mothers, the kids had put their mothers’ profiles on the Second Chance dating app without their knowledge. Was Seraphina’s still up?
I was about to put my phone in its charger when I had a sudden impulse.
I wanted to see Seraphina’s profile. But to do so, I’d have to put my own profile up, which a year ago would have seemed like the most ridiculous thing a man like me could do.
Things changed, I guess. I’d changed, here in the salty air and this warm group of friends who just kept inviting me places, even though I’d craved solitude.
Darn it all. I’d just make a quick profile for myself, then do a search for her. The app was way too easy to download. Before I knew it, I was creating a profile. Making one was straightforward enough. Name. Age. Location. A photo. A few sentences about yourself.
I sat with a few sentences about yourself. What should I say? I couldn’t think of a thing. I’d written hundreds of songs that made other people cry and laugh and call their exes at midnight. Surely I could write a little dating profile?
Okay, just put something down, I told myself. It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece. First, I needed a handle.
@Suds&Songs
Age: 38
A little disillusioned but still open to love.
About me: I’m a retired songwriter living a quiet life near the beach. Not fully retired, but taking a break from my real life for now. A hard divorce still has me licking my wounds, but every day in the sea air heals me a little.
Some of my favorite things: Moonlight over the Pacific.
A good scotch at the end of a long day. Leather jackets that fit just right.
Seafood chowder. Dark roast coffee with a splash of cream.
Old vinyl records. The sound of rain on a tin roof.
Scruffy dogs (I should get one). Reading Seraphina Sinclair romance novels.
Finding the perfect rhyme and rhythm with my pal Georgia (that’s my Taylor guitar).
Prompts:
My real-life superpower is knowing the words to every country song ever written. It’s a great party trick.
After work, you’ll find me reading, working out, listening to my vinyls, hanging with my favorite people.
I promise I won’t judge you if you don’t know the difference between a B-sharp and B-flat.
Favorite song: “If I Needed You,” especially Emmylou Harris and Don Williams’ version.
What’s your comfort movie—and will you share the popcorn? Tender Mercies. You can have the popcorn. I’ll take blackberry ice cream.
The photo was its own problem. I scrolled through my phone with the dawning realization that I had approximately two hundred photos of the Pacific Ocean at various times of day, thirty or forty of the view from Wes's bluff, several of Margaret's garden, and exactly two photos of myself. There was a recent one from Lila and Vance's wedding that Vance had sent to me. The second was from a few years ago that Ivy had taken one night when we were working on music together. It wasn’t bad, actually. I was sitting on the floor with my legs stretched out and Georgia resting on my lap. The angle was to the side, so it was more my profile than anything. Was my nose growing? It looked bigger than I’d thought.
Anyway, that was neither here nor there. I just wanted to see Seraphina’s profile.