Page 27 of Where the Music Grows

“The leap?”

“To Nashville, or wherever the music takes you,” she says simply.

That scares me more than anything else in this world.

I get to my feet and clear the table, doing the dishes despite her insisting I don’t need to. I’m going to do it anyway.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aggie says. “The sewing room’s just collecting dust. I could clear it out, put in a bed. Give you a real roof.”

The offer surprises me. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. But you’re not a stray dog, Jack. You shouldn’t be living in a tent.”

I shake my head. “I like it out there. The creek, the trees, and nature in general. It’s peaceful. Inspiring, even.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Even when it rains?”

“Okay, almost peaceful.” I grin. “But seriously, don’t go through the trouble. At least not yet.”

“Yet?”

“Come winter, I’ll probably take you up on it. But for now...” I glance out the window, where the crickets are already singing their own song. “I want to enjoy it.”

Aggie doesn’t push. Just nods. “I get that. This land is special. My parents bought it back when you could still get acreage for a song. Lived in a tent themselves for the first six months while they built the house.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.” Her eyes go distant. “Dad used to say the trees whispered to him. Mom said he was full of it, but...” She shrugs. “I’ve always felt it too.”

I know exactly what she means. There’s something about the property. It’s peaceful in a way that makes your soul relax. A place where you can catch your breath. And no cows. Not a single cowpie to step in or smell.

“Take some leftovers,” she says, pushing a container into my hands.

“Thanks, Aggie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Enjoy your night off,” she says.

Back at my campsite, I start a small fire. I bought a fire extinguisher today just to make sure I don’t burn down this beautiful land. I sit on my usual log, staring into the flames. I know Dad would think I’m crazy being out here like this when I could be back home in my own bed. But I have never felt more alive. And happy. I wouldn’t say I’m settled. Not yet. But I feel like I’m going in the right direction.

A new melody tugs at me—something about creek water and old trees and land that remembers. I scribble lyrics, cross them out, try again. It’s there, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I stare at the fire once again. I can hear the melody in my mind; I just need to get it to come through my fingers. I grab the guitar and close my eyes, letting my fingers do the talking.

But as I play, my fingers stumble.

Because suddenly I’m not thinking about the song.

I’m thinking about Dad.

Stupid guitar. Stupid dream.

His voice in my head is so clear it’s like he’s standing behind me.

I play harder, like I can drown him out.

Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?

Not just playing music.