Page 1 of Echoes of a Southern Song

Chapter One

Jack

“Sing my song for me,” Jinnie says from behind me. She’s sitting in the porch swing, gently swinging back and forth while I sit on the steps with my guitar. It’s one of those perfect evenings. I’ve got the night off and Jinnie only had to work a few hours at the bakery.

If my dad saw me, he’d call me a layabout. Or lazy. He’d be pissed I wasn’t busting my ass doing one thing or another. He was the one missing out on life. Those damn cows weren’t going to hold his hand when he was sick or love him on his death bed.

This was what life was about. Getting to sit on a porch with a glass of ice-cold lemonade with a beautiful woman on a perfect night was heaven. I didn’t even mind the mosquitoes.

“You want me to sing your song?” I tease.

“Yes.”

“How do you know that song is about you?”

“Stop it. I’m not going to help you with the bridge on that other song if I don’t hear it. I need inspiration.”

I play the first few chords and then change it up.

“Stop!” She laughs and gets up to come and sit beside me.

Her shoulder brushes against mine.

I sing quieter than I do on stage, just for her. I’ve performed the song several times now, but it’s not a regular part of my set list. It’s special and I don’t want to wear it out.

Jinnie exhales, her breath stirring my hair that’s definitely moving into shaggy territory. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my back as I sing and play.

She sighs when I play the last note. “Beautiful,” she murmurs.

“Just like the person it was written about.”

“Smooth, cowboy.” She giggles.

“All right, now, about that bridge on the other song,” I say.

She stands up and steps down the stairs and turns to face me. “Play it. I want to hear it from the audience.”

I strum the opening chords of the other song we’ve been working on all day, my fingers hesitating slightly as I try to remember the melody. Jinnie watches me intently. She’s barefoot on the gravel, her arms crossed over her chest, her head tilted slightly as she listens. Her freckles stand out on her makeup-free face. She’s wearing a pair of cutoff shorts and a tank-top. I’m pretty sure she’s the prettiest woman on this planet.

And she’s looking at me like I hung the moon.

The song starts slow, a little melancholic, but it’s supposed to build into something hopeful. I fumble through the first verse, my voice cracking on a high note. “Sorry,” I mutter, laughing at myself.

“Don’t stop,” she says firmly. “Just keep going. I told you; I hate perfect. Your fans hate perfect. They like you. The raw and imperfect you.”

So I do. By the time I reach the chorus, I’m more confident. I can see Jinnie nodding along, her lips moving silently as if she’s already crafting the words for the missing bridge. Her face lights up with an idea just as I hit a sour chord.

“Wait,” she says, holding up a hand. “What if you switch it here?” She hums a quick melody, her voice soft but sure. It’s perfect—exactly what the song needs.

I try it out on the guitar, adding my own little flair, and it clicks. The song smooths out, like a puzzle piece sliding into place. “You’re a genius,” I say, grinning up at her.

She beams back at me. “Told you I’d help.”

“You’re really talented,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah, play it through again. Play it like you mean it.”

I take a deep breath, letting my fingers find their place on the strings again. This time, I pour everything into it. It’s the way I want to perform it on stage. I can see it with bright lights and a crowd ten times the size of Aggie’s bar. I close my eyes and imagine me with a band behind me and people screaming in front of me. The song builds, just like we’d planned, and when I reach the bridge, I can feel it. It’s alive, breathing, like it’s been waiting for this moment to finally come together.