For the first time in a week, he doesn’t dream about Carla and Louie and Naomi, and he wakes feeling rested. On Tuesday morning, when the local branch of his nationwide bank opens at nine, he deposits Louie’s cash into his account. Tomorrow or the next day, once the deposit posts, he’ll transfer the entire amount to his mom. When he leaves the bank, he continues to the library where he sends an email to Wade Newman. Blaming his father’s illness, he apologizes for the delay in getting back to him. When he clicks send, his flesh crawls with chill bumps. No matter what happens with Carla and Louie and Presley, if Wade will still have him, he’s going to Nashville.
16
Presley
Homecoming has come to mean more to Presley than a theme for the party. Now that she’s settled into her new job and apartment, she never wants to leave Hope Springs. Work feels like play. Her coworkers are her family. The picturesque town is her home.
She’s so wrapped up in finalizing plans for the party, she doesn’t leave work until nearly eleven o’clock on Tuesday night. Despite the late hour, she moseys home in the unseasonably warm night, stopping to admire a fake fur coat on the mannequin in the window of her new favorite boutique. A block away from her building, she hears cheering and applause coming from outside Town Tavern. She draws closer to get a better look at the crowd. Some of the patrons are seated while others are standing. The majority are women, their gazes lifted upward. The subject of their attraction is a man playing a guitar from the second-floor window of the apartment building across the street. Her building. The apartment next to hers. The man with the guitar is Everett.
To avoid being seen, she darts into the side door and dashes up the stairs. Inside her apartment, without turning on any lights, she drops her work tote on the sofa and listens at her window for a brief moment before easing it open. Straddling the sill, she cranes her neck, so she can see down the side of the building. Everett is also seated astride his window with one bare foot planted on the balcony. With head bowed, he’s hunched over his guitar, seemingly oblivious to his audience.
Presley rests her head against the wooden window frame. His music stirs something deep inside of her, particularly a song with lyrics that sound vaguely familiar about a young man who’s lost his way. She’s been around musicians all her life, but she’s never had one move her so profoundly. Her mother would describe his music as soulful. His tone is unique, deep and smooth as honey, and his lyrics tell heartfelt stories of love, tragedy, and loss.
He plays until well past midnight. If he’s aware of her presence, he doesn’t acknowledge her. His gaze never strays from his guitar. After the last of his audience has left the restaurant, he remains at his window, the silence hanging in the air between them.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your talent?” she says finally.
Standing, he makes his way down the narrow balcony to her. “Can I come inside? I’m afraid of heights.”
She bites down on her lower lip to keep from laughing. “Only if you play me a song.”
“Haven’t you been listening? I just played at least twenty.”
“I want my own song.”
“Fine. Move over.” Nudging her with his knee, he sits down beside her.
He sings a beautiful ballad about a woman desperate to escape her loveless marriage. The woman, Mary, pines for the days of her youth with her parents on their homestead out in Texas. When the song ends, Everett swipes at his wet eyes with the back of his hand.
Presley leans into him. “You sound like Johnny Cash. Has anyone ever told you that?”
He smiles. “I’ve heard it before.”
“Is Mary your mama?”
“Yes,” he says in a soft voice, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Can we go inside now?”
She barks out a laugh. “We can go inside now.”
They climb in the window and race each other to the sofa. She beats him, and he falls on top of her. With his face close to hers, he stares into her eyes and she thinks he’s going to kiss her. She wants him to kiss her, and she’s disappointed when he rolls off of her.
With heads back against the cushions, they stare into the dimly lit room. “You never answered my question. Why did you hide your music from me?” Presley runs a hand over the soft fabric of her sofa. “You sang “Blue Velvet” the night my furniture came. When I commented on your talent, you intentionally sang off key. Why did you do that?”
He rakes his hands through his brown hair, leaving several strands sticking up. She reaches over, as though to smooth the wayward hair back into place, and then snatches her hand back.
Everett doesn’t appear to notice. He’s deep in thought, the lines in his brow pinched. “I’m at a crossroads with my music, which is one of the reasons I’m hiding out in Hope Springs. I came here to clear my head.”
“And have you? Has the clean mountain air helped clear your head?”
“I’m getting there.” He shifts on the sofa to face her. “I’m still trying to figure out how you fit in.”
“How I fit in where?” She knows what he means. She just wants to hear him say it.
“How you fit in my life.”
Her stomach does a one-and-a-half somersault dive. She has no clue how they fit together. She doesn’t care about forever. She only cares about
