Page 25 of Where the Music Grows

“You did?”

I grin and pick up the few bags from the back of the truck. “You’ve been feeding me this past week, I figure it’s time to return the favor.”

“Jack! You didn’t have to do that!” Her face lights up as she takes one of the bags from me.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to make you dinner,” I say. “I’m not a chef, but me and my brothers took turns cooking. I can make spaghetti.”

“Well, if someone is offering me a free home-cooked meal, I’m not going to turn it down.”

Aggie leads me into the kitchen, and I set to work. I chop onions and garlic while Aggie sits at the table, sipping tea and watching me with a fond smile.

“So, you’ve been here a week now. How’s it feeling?”

I pause, knife hovering over the cutting board. “Honestly? It’s amazing. I didn’t think I’d ever get to do something like this—play my music for people who actually want to hear it.”

“And the camping? You holding up okay out there?”

“Yeah,” I say with a shrug, tossing the onions into the pan. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s kind of nice, you know? Quiet. Peaceful. Like I’m out here figuring stuff out without anyone breathing down my neck.”

Aggie nods knowingly. “Sometimes you need that space to hear yourself think.”

“Exactly.” I stir the onions, letting them sizzle. “And...thanks. For everything. I don’t know what I’d be doing right now if you hadn’t let me stay.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it. You’ve livened up the place—and my bar, too. People can’t stop talking about you.”

That makes me freeze mid-stir. “What are they saying?”

“Good things,” she assures me with a laugh. “They like your voice, your songs have really touched a lot of people.”

“Wow. That’s cool.”

“You sure you don’t want help?” she asks, leaning over and watching as I chop the fresh tomatoes.

“Nope. You’re banned from your own kitchen tonight.” I grin. “Consider it payment for letting me squat on your land.”

She laughs. “If this is the going rate, I should’ve invited more strays over the years.”

The sauce simmers on the stove. I’m careful not to let it splatter and dirty up her kitchen. I taste it, add a pinch of salt. It’s good. Not Mom-level good, but decent.

Aggie watches me. “You cook like someone taught you.”

“My mom.” I keep stirring so I don’t have to look up. “She made sure all three of us knew how. Said it was a life skill, not a ‘woman’s job.’ Dad hated that.”

Aggie snorts. “Smart woman.”

“Yeah.” The word comes out softer than I mean it to.

“And is your mama missing you right now?” she asks quietly.

“If angels can miss people, then I suppose she is.”

“Ah, so that’s the guardian angel watching over you,” Aggie says. “She brought you to me.”

“Maybe,” I murmur.

“How long has she been gone?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Almost seven years ago.”