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She's found her purpose.
Cobb
Seeing Marigold thrum with life and energy has done wonders for him, and there's a huge part of Cobb that doesn't want to get well quickly. Okay, that's not true: he wants to get well, he just doesn't want Marigold to know he's doing as well as he is for fear that she'll send him packing.
There's a doctor from Destin who makes the trip out to Shipwreck Key twice a week to check on Cobb, eliminating the need for him to get on a boat and travel to the mainland. She's a wonderful cardiologist with a dry sense of humor and silver rings on every one of her fingers.
"I think it's the music," she'd said with a wry smile the last time she'd come to the island. She took off her stethoscope and hung it around her neck as she watched Cobb with her knowing, mirthful blue eyes. "You must be singing yourself back to health."
Cobb sighed. "If only it were that easy." He ran a hand through his floppy hair, tossing his head as he'd done when he was much younger. The hair was still cut in the same way he'd always had it done, only slightly thinner now and with gray at the temples. But Cobb liked to think it was a timeless look, and beyond that, he wasn't overly concerned with changing his looks.
"You know," Dr. Berry said, putting her hands on his knees as she faced Cobb there in the front room of Marigold's house. "I think it is that easy. You're here in a peaceful setting, getting lots of fresh air. You sleep well, and you have plenty of people around who care about you and have taken an interest in your recovery. And beyond that, you're feeling creative and alive. All of those things contribute to a patient getting better much faster than they might otherwise."
Cobb likes the idea that music is healing him, and so he's pursued it doggedly ever since Dr. Berry's declaration. He wakes up in the morning and takes a coffee and his somewhat repaired guitar out to the front porch, working on the songs and melodies until Marigold wakes up and asks him if he'd like her to run and get scones from The Scuttlebutt or just poach an egg for him. He naps and wakes up humming to himself, then spends the afternoons recording himself doing rough versions of his songs on his iPhone. He's been sending those quick takes to other musician friends, checking and double-checking to make sure that the songs he's dreaming about aren't ones that he heard somewhere else. So far all he's gotten back from the people he's sent his songs to are words of encouragement and hyped-up replies about how he could have his next huge hit on his hands.
Cobb doesn't know about all that, but he does know how important it is for him to get this right. To that end, he's employed Sunday, the only person on the island who has actually heard him play a full version of each song.
She pulls up in front of Marigold's bungalow in her cart at six-thirty on the morning of Valentine's Day with two cups of coffee from The Scuttlebutt in the cup holders. Cobb is waiting on the porch as the sun rises over the water to the east.
"You ready, rockstar?" she calls out, tapping her thumbs on the steering wheel.
Cobb takes one backward glance at the house. He feels guilty. He hasn't told Marigold anything about this project, and rather than waking her this early he's left her a note by the electric kettle that simply says,Went to breakfast with Sunday. She's taking me to the grocery store and I'm cooking dinner. Don't make other plans. xxx Cobb
In truth, he's ordered dinner to go from The Black Pearl for Valentine's Day, but that's not an important detail at the moment. Right now, all Cobb needs to focus on is the music.
"So your friend arrived last night and got the room all set up," Sunday says, steering them up Landlubber Lane and around some of the pot holes in the sand. "He turned my guest room into a cave, which I assume is what you're wanting."
Cobb laughs as he reaches for the paper cup of coffee that Sunday has brought for him, but he waits to take a sip until they're on flat road. "A cave sounds perfect," he says, holding up his fingers in an OK symbol.
And the guest room is exactly what he needs it to be. Horatio, the sound man who Cobb hired to come in from Nashville, has hung thick blankets on every surface of the room, covering the walls and windows so that the acoustics of the room are just right. He's set up a portable mixing system and a microphone, and as Cobb stands there in the middle of the room, he can feel something stir inside of him. It's been a while since he was in a sound booth, and the desire to pour his heart into a microphone has been hiding away somewhere for just as long.
"Morning," Horatio says, nodding at the guitar he's brought for Cobb to use. The one he'd broken the morning he fell on the porch is fine for strumming and picking out chords, but he's going to need something far better if this plan is going to come together. "Brought you the Martin." Horatio lifts the guitar, handing it to Cobb so that he can admire the smooth, honeyed surface of the guitar, running his fingers over it and tracing the way the wood changes and gets darker, its ombre pattern fading into mahogany at the edges. "That work for you?"
"It's perfect," Cobb says, feeling the way he has so many times in his life. The pulse of the music, the actual electric energy of it, ripples through his body. The years of sobriety and of finding himself have done wonders to fine tune Cobb's senses. No longer is he a lost man, self-medicated by whatever is on hand, trying to prop himself up as he gets on a stage somewhere to entertain the people who have made his rockstar lifestyle possible. No longer is he stunted by the prospect of losing it all, therefore sending himself into a never-ending spiral as he tries to hang onto everything—his place on the charts, the rights to his music, his family.
He's someone different now. Now, Cobb is comfortable in his own skin. Now he can read all day, cook for himself, watching a documentary on Charles Dickens or The Rolling Stones and then sleep hard at night without drinking himself into a stupor. So yes, maybe he has relaxed into middle age a little too comfortably, but he's finally happy. In his eyes, he finally has something to offer to the woman who has always given him so much.
Within minutes, Horatio has everything set up and Cobb is perched on a stool, guitar in his hands. Sunday has left them alone in her house, still sworn to secrecy about what they're working on there, and has gone to Seadog Lane to occupy herself while they're recording.
"I'm ready when you are, Cobb," Horatio says, adjusting his thick-framed glasses and jamming a pencil through the knot of hair on top of his head. Cobb glances at the younger man, admiring his freedom to wear his hair in a man-bun or his beard trimmed into an artful style.It's different being a young guy these days, Cobb thinks.
And then he sees the ring on Horatio's finger and realizes that it's probably not that different. Being a man simply means learning how to give love, accept love, and be the best version of yourself that you possibly can. It means finding your passions and pursuing your dreams, but at the same time not taking away the dreams of the person you love. He took away Marigold's dreams for long enough through his inability to give up his own selfish pursuits. But not anymore. Not now. From this point forward, he wants her to understand that he's grown. He's matured; grown calm. Now Cobb can support her as she chases her own creative pursuits. He's the one who will promise to be by her side, to never leave.
The time has come for him to give back to her everything that she's given to him.
He strums the guitar as Horatio gives him the signal.
There, in the tiny guest room of Sunday's house, Cobb sings his heart out. He lays it all down for Marigold in the best way he knows how--through his music.
All he can do is hope that it's not too late.
Marigold
Valentine's Day is warmer than a typical February day and the sun turns everything outside bright and hot. Marigold awakens to find a note from Cobb, and while it worries her enough that she races to the door of the guest room and stands there, staring at his empty bed for a moment, the panic subsides quickly when she realizes that he’s off with Sunday--a friend she both loves and trusts--doing something sweet for Valentine's Day.
After having coffee, Marigold puts on shorts and a t-shirt and grabs a baseball cap so that she can take a long walk on the beach. It's gorgeous out, and rather than bringing AirPods to fill her ears with music or a podcast, she lets the ocean provide her soundtrack, and she feels the sand between her toes as she walks barefoot, appreciating the natural beauty of Shipwreck Key for about the millionth time since moving there a decade prior.
In the distance, a man is jogging. As they approach one another, he slows, waving at Marigold.
