Epilogue
Hunter
We married in July but put our honeymoon off until the fall so that Ivy, Wes and I could finish our album.
Seraphina and I had decided to marry at the courthouse but have a party when things settled down.
We’d had the album to finish and Seraphina had spent most of June and July tucked away in her office writing the new book.
She’d turned it in two weeks before but had yet to hear from Sylvia.
I could see that it bothered my wife to be in limbo, but Tyler and I did what we could to distract her.
We’d also put the official adoption in motion. Soon, I would be Tyler’s legal father. I couldn’t wait.
On an afternoon in late August, I sat in Wes’s studio and listened to history being made.
Jack Wilder had been thrilled by our song, “Finally Home.” Now he and Ivy stood in front of microphones, separated by maybe three feet and a decade of parallel roads that had somehow led to this room.
Jack held a vintage Martin, with Ivy across from him with her own guitar.
We’d decided early in the session that they'd both play rhythm to create a fuller sound.
I stood off to their left with Georgia, ready to lay the lead underneath them.
Wes sat at the vintage SSL 9000 console, his weathered hands moving across the faders with the ease of forty years’ experience. Margaret had brought down sandwiches an hour ago and stayed to watch. Tyler and Seraphina sat on the leather couch against the wall, taking everything in with wide eyes.
This was the last track that would complete Ivy’s first independent record. We’d enjoyed every moment of writing, recording, finding meaning in our simple songs. Working together with Wes was the highlight of my career so far.
Before we got started, I studied Jack Wilder.
I’d met him before and seen him perform a few times, but I didn’t know him well.
He was broad through the shoulders, with a lean muscled build.
Dark hair curled slightly at his collar.
And the man had a jaw that could carve an Angus steak, softened only by the short dark beard.
He’d arrived that morning, and I understood quickly that he was a man of few words. Not shy, but thoughtful. The moment his dark eyes had caught sight of Ivy, he’d hardly taken his gaze elsewhere.
Now, Jack leaned into the first verse, an aching rasp in his voice that seared right through a man’s soul, his hand moving across the Martin strings. My mama said I was born with a restless soul / Always on the move, looking for more than rain on a tin roof …
I picked out the melody line on Georgia, finding the spaces between his rhythm, bending notes into the places his voice left open.
Ivy came in for the second verse, her guitar soft beneath her voice.
My daddy said Tennessee’s your heart / Little girl, no matter how far you go / The whispering pines still call your name …
She gazed at Jack as she sang, an expression of complete adoration on her pretty face. I’d never seen her look at anyone that way. Not in all the years I’d known her. For his part, Jack gazed right back, strumming his guitar, as if he had no intention of ever taking his eye off her.
I knew right then and there. This was the man Ivy had been waiting to find. I could see their love story unfolding as clearly as the notes I plucked on my guitar.
I glanced at Wes. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. Margaret winked at me. They saw it too.
Jack and Ivy traded verses, their voices weaving together and apart, telling the same story from different angles. Two people who’d spent their whole lives searching for something they thought only music could give them.
Then the bridge came, and they sang together for the first time.
We’d almost stopped believing / That the road would lead us right / Almost made our peace / With a beautiful but lonely life …
The harmony was honey stirred into a glass of whiskey. Their pairing seemed so natural it seemed as if they’d been singing together for years instead of hours. Jack stepped closer to his microphone, his eyes locked with hers.
I looked over at Seraphina. She smiled, nodding.
The chorus swelled. But the moment I saw you / I saw everything / All the torn pieces of my heart / Stitched into a patchwork quilt like my mama made / The only warmth I’d ever need …
Ivy’s voice broke slightly on the word warmth. Pure beauty that comes from raw emotional imperfection.
Jack’s hand moved, almost reaching for her, as if to comfort her, but then seemed to remember where they were, and pulled his hand back to his side. I knew the feeling of being so lost in another that reality slipped away.
The outro came soft and steady, both voices intertwined. No more restless soul / No more searching for more / Just you and the rain on the tin roof / And those whispering songs of the pines / To tell me I’m finally home …
The last note faded. We were quiet, collectively moved into the silence that comes after witnessing something profoundly moving.
Wes’s voice came through the talkback. “That’s the one. We can’t do better.”
Ivy pulled off her headphones, wiping her eyes. “That song wrecks me.”
“It’s special,” Jack said, looking at Ivy with an expression of wonder and admiration. “Like you, Miss James.”
“Right back at you,” Ivy said.
“It’s wild how closely you captured my life,” Jack said. “Like you wrote it for me.”
“We kind of did.” Ivy flushed, ducking her chin, but looking over at him with her big blue eyes. “I knew enough about your early life to put it into the song.”
Jack’s expression turned incredulous. “But why?”
“I really wanted to sing with you,” Ivy said.
“I would have sung the ABCs with you if you’d asked,” Jack said.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ivy said.
Tyler appeared at my elbow, grinning. “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever watched. You don’t have to do it a second time?”
“We got it in one take,” Wes said, coming out of the control room. “That almost never happens. But when the chemistry’s right, it’s right.” He glanced at Ivy and Jack, who were now discussing something none of us could hear, standing closer than they needed to.
Our Ivy was about to become Jack’s Ivy.
Seraphina
The evening after the epic recording, Hunter, Tyler and I were on the patio grilling steaks when my phone rang.
“It’s Sylvia,” I said, looking at the screen.
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “On a Saturday?”
“She said she’d call when she finished reading.” My heart was pounding. I’d sent her the first hundred pages of the new book two weeks ago. The book I’d been terrified to write. The one about women and music and the South—about mothers and daughters and the songs that carry us through.
“Answer it,” Tyler said. “And put it on speaker. I want to hear.”
I took a breath and accepted the call. “Hi, Sylvia.”
“Seraphina.” Her voice was strange. Thick. “I just finished.”
“And?”
A pause. Then: “I’ve been your editor for fifteen years. I’ve read everything you’ve written. And I have never—never—read anything like this.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Is that good or bad?”
“It’s extraordinary.” She laughed, but it sounded like she might be crying.
“I stayed up until three in the morning. I couldn’t stop.
The mother in 1956, working at that café, dreaming of something bigger, and then her daughter in the seventies, and the granddaughter now.
Seraphina, this is the book you were born to write. ”
Tyler pumped his fist silently. Hunter was grinning.
“The way you weave the music through all three timelines,” Sylvia continued. “The way each woman finds her voice through song, even when everything else is telling her to be quiet. It’s universal and specific and heartbreaking and hopeful all at once.”
“I know it’s different than my usual books,” I said. “Do you think any of my readers will take a chance on it?”
“We’ll market the heck out of it,” Sylvia said. “There are readers. Some of your current ones. Gobs of others. I have a feeling about this book, and you better brace yourself for what’s to come. It’s going to be a whirlwind.”
I was speechless.
Sylvia went on. “Enjoy your weekend. Kiss that songwriter of yours for me. And start working on another book.”
She hung up. I stood there, staring at the phone.
“Mom, you did it.” Tyler crossed the patio and wrapped me in a hug.
“She loved it. I kind of can’t believe it. ” I’d spent the last few weeks on edge, not sure what she would think.
“She more than loved it.” Hunter set down the tongs and took his turn hugging me while the steaks sizzled and the California sun sank toward the ocean.
“I couldn’t have written it without you,” I said. “Either of you. You gave me the courage to try.”
“This was all you, baby,” Hunter said. “And we’re proud of you.”
“Totally,” Tyler said.
Hunter headed back to the grill. “Can’t burn the steaks. This is a celebration dinner.”
“We have a lot to celebrate,” I said.
“That’s right,” Hunter said. “The book. Tyler’s team making playoffs. The album being done. All of it.”
“I’ll grab the steak sauce and salad from inside,” Tyler said. “Mom, text your friends. They’ll be so excited for you.”
I picked up my phone and typed a quick message to the group chat.
Seraphina
Sylvia loved the book.
Esme
I knew it.
Delphine
Finally. Sylvia proves she’s not a complete dolt.
Lila
I predict another movie.
Gillian
I’m crying again.
Esme
I’m pregnant. Not to take away from your news, Seraphina. I just took the test, and I can’t believe it. I haven’t even told Grady yet.
Gillian
Now I’m crying some more.
We went on like that for a few more minutes, everyone chiming in to congratulate Esme, asking about due dates and did she feel all right. By the time I set down the phone, I couldn’t stop smiling.
“What is it?” Hunter asked.
“Esme’s pregnant.”
He looked taken aback for a moment. “Good for them.”