AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I give him a look.
“Okay, a little, but he worries about you, darling. He feels like he has to look out for you like you did for him back when you were younger.”
“I know, and it’s sweet. Dad’s still a ‘spread the love’ kind of hippie.”
“That he is. Those tie-dye shirts he wears do not lie.” Grandpa shakes his head before standing from the chair. “I blame your grandmother for that one.” He chuckles, walking through the room on unsteady legs.
Giggling, I follow him to the back of the workshop. “He has his own style.”
He raises his eyebrow. “Honey, you and I have style. Your dad has Deadhead shirts to last a lifetime or two, and they ain’t pretty.”
“You’re right about that one.” Grinning, I spot my guitars lying on the work counter all shiny and new. “Wow, Grandpa, Dad is going to love them.”
Smiling, he takes his seat in one of the chairs, catching his breath.
“You okay?” I ask, leaning against the workbench.
“I’m okay, darling. Don’t you worry about this old dinosaur.” He brushes his hand over one of the guitars. “I did call your dad this morning, telling him I’m hanging up the old guitar, so to speak.”
“What? Why?” I ask, taking a seat.
Looking around the room with a content smile on his face, he says, “My hands don’t work that well now with the arthritis, and I want to be closer to downtown. I want to walk to the water, go to the park, and be with my friends at the VA old folks home. It’s walking distance from the studio. So I’m moving by the end of the summer, in time for some good retirement fun.”
“Wow, Grandpa, I don’t know if I want to sob or burst out in happy tears for you.”
“Well, Squirrel, happy tears I’ll take. And I know how much you love this house. It needs some work, but before I put it on the market, I’m giving you first pick. I’ve also got some money put aside for all you kids.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “Grandpa, that’s too much. I can’t take yours and Grandma’s money.”
“You know this would be a great family home,” he says, beaming at me. “There’s good schools around here, and it’s a thirty-minute drive to the studio.”
I stare out in front of me, the memories rushing back. I fight the threatening tears that always seem to accompany Navarone and the mention of kids.
Grandpa stands. “Think about it,” he says, laying his hand on my shoulder. “But first, let’s get these guitars out of here.”
The whole way back to the studio, I keep mulling over what Grandpa said. I have some money put aside, but I don’t know if it will be enough for a down payment. And with the banks not eager to hand out loans, would I be able to scratch together enough cash to buy the house? Grandpa needs the money; retirement homes aren’t cheap. Maybe I could ask the guys for a loan. But with Frankie wanting to open his own bar, Austin saving for his tattoo parlor, Evan and Gunner never being free of debt, and Dad still paying off the loan on the studio, I know it’s out of the question.
Asking Axl is an option. The thought rushes through my mind that I could ask Navarone. I shake my head. No, I am still paying the lawyer for the divorce papers.
Shit!Slamming on the brakes, I stop next to a big black Harley parked in front of the studio. One look, and I instinctively know it’s his.
Asshole still hasn’t signed the papers. After the chaos of moving here and trying to get my bearings, the papers had traveled to the back of my mind. It is easy to ignore the fact that you are still married when the man in question is all over gossip sites, being linked with famous models and actresses.
For the last couple of years, he hasn’t been sending the papers back or bothering to answer my lawyer’s numerous calls while he’s been on tour. It’s like we’ve been starring in our own Sweet Home Alabama remake. Maybe working together for the next few weeks will drill it into him: us being married is a match made in honky-tonk hell.
I burst into the studio carrying three guitar cases. Paulie, one of the best touring drummers around, walks up to me before helping me with one of the guitars.
“How’ve you been, Paulie?”
He looks good wearing shorts and a black wifebeater, leaving nothing to the imagination, especially those piercings in his nipples. “Can’t complain. Music is still alive and kicking, and so am I,” he jokes, brushing a hand over his Mohawk. The Liverpool accent that he’s famous for makes me smile. He sets down the cases in the overflowing instrument room next to the control area.
“Hey, Squirrel,” Dad says, poking his head around the door. “Are those my guitars?” He points to the three cases.
“They sure are.”
Paulie pinches my hand before walking back into the studio and slapping my dad on his shoulder.
“Dad, why didn’t you tell me Grandpa was moving?” Watching him checking out the new guitars, I laugh when I spot Dad is wearing a tie-dye shirt under his black hoodie.
