Page 17 of First Moon

Warm wood covered the ceiling, darker than the rest of the house and rich with grain. A black grand piano sat near a pair of tall windows. Along one wall, built-in shelves held rows of vinyl records, old songbooks, framed album art, and little stacks of notebooks held together with rubber bands. Guitars stood in racks beneath a row of gold and platinum records, some shiny and expensive, others scuffed and worn. There was a listening corner with two low leather chairs and a turntable.

A couple of acoustic panels were tucked discreetly between framed posters, and, in the far corner, a microphone stood ready beside a stool and a tangle of cables.

“We rehearse here sometimes,” Jack said. “But mostly I write here. Sometimes alone. Other times with Beck or Knox. A lot of tunes have gone down here.”

I walked farther in, my bare feet sinking into the rug. On the piano, a notebook lay open, lines scratched out and rewritten. An old guitar hung by itself on the wall. It was smaller than the others, battered at the edges, with a place worn smooth below the sound hole.

“Is this the one?” I asked. “Your first.”

Jack came to stand beside me. “That’s right. We all have one, don’t we?”

“Sure do. My mama and daddy got me my first one for Christmas. Ten years old. Some girls wanted a horse. All I wanted was a guitar.”

“An older gentleman at church gave it to me. Said his hands were too old to play it anymore but that he had a feeling I’d get some good use out of it. I’d learned to play on one of our neighbors old guitars. It wouldn’t stay in tune—like it was stubborn—but it was all I had. When I got my hands on this one, it felt like destiny.”

“How old were you?”

“I was twelve. Started learning to play when I was eight. Self-taught.”

“Yeah, I am too.”

“Once I got my hands on a good guitar, there was no stopping me. I played every chance I got.”

“When did you know you could sing?” I asked.

“Church,” he said. “They kept asking me to perform, so I did.” Jack lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles, slow and sweet. “It’s getting late. I can call you an Uber. But we’re far enough out that it’ll take a while, and I don’t love the idea of sending you off alone this late.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve taken an Uber before.”

“You can stay in one of the guest rooms,” Jack said. “If you want. There are locks on all the doors.”

“Do I need a lock?”

“If it makes you feel less nervous to stay here, yes. However, I am a gentleman, although it’s difficult when Ivy James is in the house.”

“You’re doing a pretty good job.”

“Do I hear disappointment?”

“Not at all. I’m charmed. Most men try to get me into bed before they even feed me dinner.”

“Things that are important shouldn’t be rushed,” Jack said. “Anyway, if it’s up to me, you’ll never have another bad date. Or any more first dates.”

“That would be a relief,” I said, smiling up at him. “And yes, I’d love to stay. Thank you.”

We walked down to the room with the brass bed.

“This is where my mom stays,” Jack said. “She says the bed’s just the right amount of soft, but she hates the pillows. Always brings her own in her suitcase.”

“I’m sure the pillows will be fine,” I said.

“They should be. They’re the same ones that a fancy hotel chain has. But leave it to my mother to like her flat pillow.”

“Like my mother’s dumplings?”

He laughed as he opened a drawer and pulled out a new toothbrush and a small tube of paste. “There are towels in the bathroom. And another robe if you’d like a dry one.” He paused. “Hang on, let me grab one of my T-shirts for you to sleep in.” He was gone only a minute or so, returning with a shirt folded into a neat square, which he placed on the end of the bed.

“I should let you get settled,” Jack said.