Chapter 19 Seraphina
SERAPHINA
We landed in Nashville on a Thursday afternoon to a brilliant blue sky and air thick and warm with a hint of honeysuckle that reminded me of the Alabama summers of my youth. A silver-haired driver was waiting for us at baggage claim holding a sign that read SINCLAIR/SLOAN.
Our names looked great together.
“We have a car?” I asked.
“I want to take you around and didn’t want to be distracted with driving.”
The car was a black SUV with leather seats and bottled water in the console. Our driver, who introduced himself as Earl, told us he’d been taking people on tours of Nashville for a decade.
“Where to first?” Earl asked.
“We’d like to go to the hotel first so we can check in and drop our bags. We won’t be long, and then you can take us around the city,” Hunter said.
“I can’t wait to see everything,” I said, feeling like a kid.
Fifteen minutes later, Earl pulled up to an ivy-covered, three-story brick building in a quiet neighborhood. I immediately fell in love with its charming black shutters and a wide front porch with rocking chairs and a small brass sign that read THE ADELICIA, EST. 1888.
“I love it,” I said.
“I thought you’d enjoy staying somewhere with some history.”
“You were right.” I leaned close to give him a quick peck before we got out of the car. Earl helped us with our bags and said he’d be waiting, but to take our time.
The Adelicia had once been a gilded-age mansion.
The moment I stepped into the lobby, my creative juices started flowing.
I stared up at the twelve-foot ceilings, marveling at the ornate carving in the crown molding, imagining the hands that had no doubt spent countless hours creating such beauty.
Women from the past, wearing plumed hats and corsets whispered to me, tell our stories.
What had the women who had once lived in this house been like?
What had they thought about as they floated down the curved staircase, gloved hands gliding over the mahogany railing?
As if to remind me that time is fleeting, a moment gone before we capture it fully in memory, a grandfather clock ticked softly in the corner.
We had a corner suite on the third floor with tall windows, a four-poster bed draped in white linen, and a clawfoot tub in the bathroom. Walls were papered in a delicate floral pattern, faded to the perfect shade of soft rose. A writing desk sat near the window, with a view of a magnolia tree.
“This is perfect,” I said to Hunter. “Thank you.”
“Ivy helped me pick it out.” He drew me close, kissing me. “But we can’t stay. I have a lot to show you. We’ll enjoy it when we get back.”
After we’d freshened up, we headed back downstairs for our tour with Earl.
We started downtown, the SUV rolling past the Ryman Auditorium, its red brick facade and arched windows unchanged since 1892.
“Think of all the greats who have performed there over the years,” I said.
“It’s a special place. I played there with Ivy a few years back.”
“I would have loved to see that,” I said.
We drove down Broadway, past the honky-tonks with their neon signs and open doors, music spilling onto the sidewalks even at two in the afternoon.
I spotted Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, Robert’s Western World, The Stage, all names I’d heard of at one time or another.
Places that had launched careers and probably broken countless hearts.
“That’s where I played my first open mic,” Hunter said, pointing to a bar with a battered wooden sign. “I was so nervous I blacked out. Don’t remember a thing about the three and a half minutes I performed.”
We turned onto the tree-lined streets of Music Row, the modest buildings that housed the offices and studios where country music was made.
Hunter pointed out Sony, Warner, Universal, and some of the smaller studios where he’d recorded demos, pitched songs, and waited for calls that sometimes came and sometimes didn’t.
“This is where my dad spent a majority of his life,” Hunter said. “Playing guitar for whoever they asked him to. His whole purpose was wrapped up in this business.”
I caught the sadness in his voice. Even after all these years, he still longed for time with his father.
Earl drove us through East Nashville next. There were hip coffee shops and vintage stores, Victorian cottages painted in bright colors.
“This is where artists and musicians can still afford rent,” Hunter said. “I lived just down the street there for three years. The bathroom was so small I had to duck my head to shower.”
We drove through Belle Meade, with its grand estates and ancient oaks, and past The Meadowlark Café, modest from the outside but inside magic happened.
“Earl, can you take us down Woodland Street? Toward the old Eastland neighborhood?” Hunter asked.
“Sure thing.”
The neighborhood we entered was working-class, a little worn around the edges, but still emanating pride. There were small brick houses with chain-link fences and uncut lawns. Kids rode bikes on cracked sidewalks. A corner store with a faded Coca-Cola sign felt like it belonged in a book.
“Just another block, Earl,” Hunter said. “And then please pull over.”
Earl did so, pulling into a vacant spot on the street.
“There it is. The yellow one with the brown trim. I lived there until I was ten.” Hunter gestured toward a small duplex with two stories and faded paint.
An abandoned red wagon lay on its side just inside the fence.
Drawn curtains hid whatever was inside. He paused, his gaze far away.
“It’s a lot more rundown than I remember. ”
I reached for his hand. “Is it difficult to see it again?”
“Kind of, yeah. Brings back a lot of memories.” His voice was steady, but his fingers tightened around mine.
“The day my mom left, my dad had stayed overnight at the studio. I don’t know why.
Maybe they’d had a fight. I don’t remember.
All I know is, I came home from school and she was gone.
Closets empty. The kitchen was left alone, except she took the good knives.
” He shook his head. “My dad went on and on about those knives. They were a wedding gift from his cousin.”
“It wasn’t the knives.”
“Yeah, I know that now.” His jaw flexed. “At the time I thought it was so weird. Like why do you care about knives when Mom’s gone? But I understand now. After Dana left me, I obsessed for months about this nice set of towels Margaret had given us for Christmas. I loved those towels.”
“I’ll get you new towels.”
He squeezed my hand. “Can they be blue? I like blue.”
“They can be whatever color you want.”
He took another look at the yellow duplex, his eyes hardening.
“I used to think, if I’d been a better kid, she would have stayed.
Took me a long time to understand it didn’t have anything to do with me.
I don’t know which is worse. To think I caused my mother to leave or to believe she left because she didn’t want me, not because of anything I did or didn’t do. ”
I lifted his hand to my lips and kissed his knuckles.
“Okay, Earl. Let’s go see something happier. Can you take us to Leiper’s Fork?” He turned back to me. “I’ll show you Wes and Margaret’s house where I spent most of my teens.”
The drive took us out of the city, past rolling hills and white-fenced horse farms, into the countryside that surrounded Nashville. Leiper’s Fork was a tiny town with one main street and a handful of shops.
“Wes worked in the city but Margaret wanted quiet, so he bought her this.” The house was a white farmhouse with a wraparound porch, set back from the road behind a low stone wall. A barn sat behind it, painted red, and horses grazed in a pasture that stretched toward the hills.
“They sold it when Wes retired, but I have a lot of good memories from here. Practiced guitar on that porch.”
“It’s idyllic.”
“I think sometimes about what would have happened to me if they hadn’t been there. I’d probably have gotten in with a bad crowd. Destroying my life one shot of Jack at a time.”
“But they did, and look at all the things you’ve accomplished.”
“Life isn’t only about accomplishments, you know,” he said gently.
“It has been for me.”
“I know. But maybe it doesn’t have to hold all your self-worth.”
“That’s a lesson I’ll have to learn again and again. It’s defined me for a long time. Having you in my life is a great reminder that there’s more to life than work.”
He played with a lock of my hair, wrapping it around a finger. “Ready to go back to the hotel?”
I nodded. “Ready if you are.”
Earl drove us back as the sun began to set in a sky streaked with pink.
I leaned against Hunter’s shoulder, watching Nashville roll past. Ideas and characters started to come to me in the way that made my fingers long for Bertha.
But this was not a weekend about work. This was a weekend away with the man I loved.
Stories could wait until I got back to my desk.
“It’s okay,” Hunter said.
“What’s that?” I looked over at him.
“You can let the stories populate that amazing brain of yours. I don’t mind.”
I smiled, placing my hand on his knee. “I didn’t bring Bertha, so you’re safe.”
He tapped my temple. “It’s in there, ruminating. As it should be.”
“What about you? Any stories coming?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes. ‘Destroying my life one shot of Jack at a time.’ That’s a great line for a song.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
By then we were back at the hotel. Earl gave us his card and said he could take us anywhere we wanted to go this weekend. “Just text me, and I’ll be there.”
We thanked him and climbed out of the car, holding hands as we walked back into the lobby and upstairs to our room. Our room with only one bed.