Page 46 of Echoes of a Southern Song

Chapter Seventeen

Jack

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THE FRESH COAT OF STAIN is perfect. I spent days sanding after I built it with my own two hands. Not one of those big sanders. I was on my hands and knees with a little orbital sander smoothing out every inch of this deck. Aggie can dance barefoot out here and she’s not going to get a splinter. She can drag her ass across it if she wants and she’s still going to be fine. Damn, it looks good. Better than good. It’s solid, sturdy, like it could weather a hundred summers without flinching.

I set the brush down on the edge of the paint tray and crouch to run my fingers along the wood. Smooth. Even. I’ve been working on this thing for what feels like forever and now it’s finally done. It’s something I can be proud of. Something that feels like mine, even though it’s Aggie’s house.

I take a step back, hands on my hips as I survey the whole thing. The color is just right—warm and inviting, not too dark, not too light. Aggie is in town buying pots to fill with flowers for her new deck. It makes me feel good to know I can bring joy into her life. She’s done so much for me. Building a deck doesn’t come close to paying her back for what she’s done.

But now that the deck is done, we’ve been talking about me building some raised garden beds. I think that’s going to be a lot easier than the deck. Working with my hands, sweating my ass off, and developing more callouses than I can count has been therapeutic. It keeps my mind busy. I’d be going stir-crazy with Jinnie working all the time.

I hear my phone ringing and walk over to grab it.

It’s Michael. “Hey,” I answer.

“Shit, where you been?”

“I’ve been busy,” I mutter, scratching the back of my neck.

“Being a rockstar,” he jokes.

“Trying,” I reply. “I’ve been playing most nights, working on new songs.”

There’s a pause on the line. “That’s good, though, right? Means people like your stuff?” Caleb asks, telling me I’m on speaker.

“They do,” I say, even though it still feels weird to admit that out loud. I’m not used to people liking what I create. Growing up, the only applause I ever got was when I didn’t screw something up.

Michael chuckles. “Look at you. Small-town prodigal son turning into a one-man sensation.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, sitting down in the shade, “Dad wouldn’t agree.”

“Have you talked to him again?” Caleb asks.

“Nope. Don’t need to. I already know what he’s going to say. Music won’t feed a family. That I’m wasting my life chasing bar gigs and that he raised me better than this.”

“Jack, you know he’s never gonna understand,” Michael says. “But we do. We see what you’re doing. And it’s good. Better than good.”

“He said I was running away,” I say. “Told me I left the family hanging. That I abandoned the farm.”

“Ignore it,” Michael replies.

“The farm is fine,” Caleb adds. “It’s more than fine. We’ve got it handled. You didn’t abandon anything. You left because you had to. We get it. Dad will eventually. Or he won’t. That’s his choice.”

I don’t say anything.

“He doesn’t get to rewrite what happened,” Caleb continues. “You did what was right for you. And if that pisses him off, tough. We’re proud of you. Even if he never says it, we will.”

Something loosens in my chest. Not a full release, not relief, but it’s something.

“Thanks,” I say.

“So you should know something,” Michael says.

“He took my money, disowned me... what more?” I ask.

“Dad hired Aiden and Trent.”