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“There aren’t any hotels in town,” the woman tells me.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my email. “Lone Star Bed and Breakfast?”
She snorts. “That’s forty minutes from here.”
Fantastic. I’m looking at over an hour commute every day I’m stuck here.
I force a smile, refusing to show any unease. Something tells me she’s not the coddling type. “Guess I’d better get going then.”
“You can stay in the guesthouse.”
“Guesthouse?”
All I see are barns,ahouse, and a few sheds. Nothing that resembles visitor accommodations.
“Miles is stubborn. You won’t get far if you don’t do the walking. But you’ve still got to kick the horse so it knows you mean business.”
I shade my eyes with one hand, feeling sweat bead on my brow and trying to make sense of the mixed metaphor. “Miles?”
“You don’t know much about my nephew.”
It’s not a question. And it’s impossible to tell from her tone whether that’s a good or bad thing. But it’s a glimmer of insight into a mystery I need to solve if I have any chance of making this trip a success.
“You’re his aunt? Does the whole family live here?”
There’s no response to my questions.
“I’m Mabel. Dinner is at six, if you stick around.”
And then she’s gone, the screen door slamming shut with a resounding thud.
I look around and sigh, deliberating on what to do next.
I should leave. I trust Linda found the best possible place for me to stay, and aside from the commute,far from hereisn’t exactly a downside. A cool shower and room service sound like the best end to what has been a long day.
But…I have a nagging certainty Mabel is right. That I won’t get anywhere with Kyle from the comfort of the Lone Star Bed and Breakfast. I’ll be a lot harder to ignore if I’m camped out in his backyard versus sleeping forty minutes away.
I let out another long exhale, knowing what I’ll do and already wishing I’d picked the other option.
I unload my two overstuffed suitcases from the car and trudge toward the nearest outbuilding, the strap of my purse digging into my collarbone and my suitcases banging against my shins every other step. The horizontal white siding matches the farmhouse, the yellow paint on the door peeling in most places. I drop my luggage down and try the handle, not surprised when it opens easily. Iamsurprised by the interior.
It’s a music studio. Soundproofed. State-of-the-art equipment. I take a few steps forward, and I could be back in New York at a recording session.
The air is much cooler in here. Not quite the freezer temperature I’m craving, but there’s obviously some climate control installed to protect the equipment.
I walk over to the cabinets that cover one wall, sliding open the wooden door.
Awards.
Row after row of shiny megaphones. Trophies that artists spend years—lifetimes—chasing, hidden away like they’re something to be ashamed of.
It doesn’t fit with anything I know about Kyle. He’s the typical performer, happy to show off his accomplishments. Loud and proud whenever he’s onstage.
“Um, hello?”
I spin to face the figure standing in the doorway. He’s tall, studying me with a quizzical expression. Caught somewhere between the end of boyhood and the beginning of manhood. I’d guess he’s in high school, maybe college.
I clear my throat. “Hi.”
