Page 44 of Where the Music Grows

Even if part of me still wants more—still wants to shove this success in everyone’s face until they have to admit I was right—but that’s not why I started playing. This is for me. It makes me happy.

Chapter Fifteen

Jack

My truck bounces up Aggie’s driveway. It’s weird to be driving over here. Usually, I just walk through the trees. Today, I’ve got a bed full of lumber and other supplies I need to take care of some projects around the house for her. It started with me fixing a loose railing on her deck. She asked if I would be willing to take care of some other things that have been sitting and waiting to be fixed for years. She insists she’ll pay me. At first, I reject her offer of payment, but when I realize she’s not talking about fixing a loose board or oiling hinges, I accept the job. At a steep discount of course.

I grab the toolbox Aggie left on the porch for me. She says it’s old and she doesn’t know if the right tools for the jobs she needs done are in there. I take it to the greenhouse. That’s the first job I’m going to tack.

“Damn,” I mutter as a I survey the project.

It’s a big job. I’m not sure if it would be easier to just tear it down and rebuild. I push on a few pieces of wood. The wood practically crumbles. The thing is more rot than wood at this point, but Aggie insists it’s salvageable. I’m not so sure, but the extra cash doesn’t hurt.

I take a deep breath and figure the best way to finish is to get started. I grab the drill and start unscrewing the heavy-duty plastic panels, being careful not to crack them. I lay them in a pile and go after the wood that needs replaced. I yank out one rusty nail after another.

I’m elbow-deep in the rotten wood of Aggie’s greenhouse when I hear the screen door slam. I glance up, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. Aggie’s walking toward me with a glass of iced tea. I love the way she makes it. She sweetens it with a little honey and it’s perfect.

“How’s it going?” she calls out, her voice carrying over the sound of birds chirping in the trees.

“It’s going,” I grunt, prying another piece of warped wood loose with a crowbar. “This thing’s seen better days, though. I’m not sure how much of it I can save.”

“Take a break,” she says. “You’ve been at it for hours.”

I take the glass and gulp it down gratefully. The sugar hits my system like a jolt, waking me up a little more. “Thanks. I didn’t realize how long I’d been out here.”

Aggie surveys the mess of wood and plastic piled around me. “You weren’t kidding about it being bad,” she says, shaking her head. “I was hoping it wasn’t as far gone as it looked.”

“Yeah, well, this stuff crumbles when you touch it. I’m thinking we might need to replace most of the frame.”

She sighs but doesn’t look surprised. “You’re handy for a musician.”

I snort. “Farm kid, remember? If we couldn’t fix it ourselves, it didn’t get fixed.”

“I think farm kids are the hardest workers.” She laughs. “I’m going to make some lunch. I’ll call you in about an hour. I can’t have you passing out.”

“Thanks, Aggie.”

I go back to work, stripping the greenhouse down to just a few supports. I’m glad I bought extra lumber. I’m just going to rebuild what was already there. Design and engineering are not my thing, but I’ve built plenty of sheds and barns to know the basics about building.

I work hard for the next hour until Aggie hollers at me to come inside and eat. I leave the tools on the ground and head inside to wash up. I know I’m sweaty and I’m pretty sure I smell like the cows I hated being around.

I scrub my hands in the bathroom, the cool water a welcome relief against my overheated skin. Aggie’s kitchen smells like fresh bread and something savory—pot roast, maybe. My stomach growls loudly.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Aggie says, setting a sandwich the size of my head in front of me.

“It smells good in here.”

“Pot roast for dinner,” she says. “When it’s warm out, I try and use the crockpot.”

She brings a bowl to the table. A macaroni salad. My favorite. I quickly dish up a portion on the side of my plate.

“Thank you,” I say. “This is too much.”

“Nonsense,” Aggie says, sitting across from me with her own plate. “You’re doing me a favor. Least I can do is feed you.”

I dig in, the BLT is perfect. Crunchy bacon, crisp lettuce, and the most flavorful tomato I’ve ever eaten. “This is incredible,” I say around a mouthful.

“The lettuce and tomato are from my sister’s garden,” she says.