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I’m sure it’s a hard question for him to ask and I can see the disappointment forming on his face. He doesn’t want to be done yet. Clay has always loved this. He loves the music just as much as I do, but he loves the crazy crowds too, whereas I for damn sure could do without.
“No, dude, not done. I don’t think we’ll ever be done. I just . . .” Silence. I don’t know how to finish my sentence, and I’m pleading with my eyes for him to keep understanding a little longer. He studies me and then his expression relaxes. That’s all I needed to see, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Say no more. I’m staying this weekend and then I’ll head back to Nashville on Monday to do some more damage control.” He tips the bottle and drains the beer.
“Thanks, man. Believe it or not, this time away has been good. I think I’m finding my way back; I just need a little more time.” The relief is evident in my tone.
Years of friendship and understanding flash across his face and are then replaced by cockiness. “Well, I just need a steak. I’m starving and you’re cooking.” He pats his stomach and stretches out a little more on the couch. He’s never been one to stay mad long, and that’s one of the qualities I’ve always admired the most about him. He’s easygoing and takes things as they come. Me, on the other hand, I need time to process.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What makes you think I have steaks lying around?”
“When do you not?” he chuckles. He does know me so very well.
I bust out laughing and the tension in the room dissipates. Whiskey feels the energy change and his tail starts thumping on the floor. “Whatever you say, dear. Anything else?” I ask as I get up.
He quirks a smile at me and holds up his bottle. I just shake my head at him. Man, is it good to see him.
“Juliet is worried about you,” he says as I head out the kitchen door to turn on the grill.
“She worries about everything.” A twinge of guilt slips under my skin. I hate that I’m making her worry.
“You disappeared and haven’t called her either.” His tone is slightly accusatory, and I can’t say that I blame him.
“I haven’t called anyone, but I’ll call her soon.” Just like with Clay, I hadn’t known what to say. If I had everything figured out, I’d have called her . . . but I don’t. Hopefully, she’ll understand.
Pulling a steak from the refrigerator, I toss him a beer and head back outside.
“Tomorrow night, we’re going out,” Clay says just before he flips on the TV. That’s smart of him—he knows I’ll argue, and this way he can’t hear me.
I groan at the thought of being surrounded by a crowd of people. What if someone recognizes me? I’m just not ready to be outed. This cabin here on the lake is my sanctuary.
“You owe me,” he calls out.
I know I do. I can only imagine how angry the label has been.
Flipping over his steak, a shiver runs through me. I hadn’t realized the temperature had already dropped so significantly since I arrived. Fall is in full swing and I’m loving every minute of it. In a way, I’m grateful for that last concert. If I hadn’t reached my breaking point, I wouldn’t be here, and being here in this house, on this lake, it grounds me. I’ve needed this time to remind myself of who I am and what I love, without the lights, the fans, and the show.
COLD AIR SLIPS through the windows, and as the curtains sway back and forth, the morning sunlight dances across my room. I crack my eyes open and a huge smile creeps onto my face as I stretch and remember where I am. It was late when we pulled in last night, and other than the moonlight shimmering on the lake, we were surrounded by darkness. Throwing back the covers, I slip on a sweatshirt and slide open the glass doors that lead out to the back deck. Tank, my dog, jumps off the bed and follows me.
I’ve been counting down the days until we arrived, and now that we’re here, a calm settles over me. I’m a Midwestern girl, born and raised, and although it’s peaceful with its rolling fields and farmland, nothing beats the smell or view of the mountains.
Nestled high up in the southern part of the Blue Ridge Mountains lies Horizons Valley. The valley is small, mostly hidden, and contains a quaint town, a lake on the southern end, a large orchard, a few small cattle ranches, and several resorts. It’s fair to say that this town is equal parts vacationers and locals. In the summer, people go hiking, rafting, and horseback riding, and in the winter, skiing. I think it’s idyllic and a little slice of heaven.
The house belongs to Emma’s parents, a vacation home conveniently three hours from their lives in Atlanta. I’d met Emma on our first day of college. She’s petite with thick, wavy, brown hair, and is the epitome of a Southern belle. In front of others, she’s poised and polite, but behind closed doors, she’s spunky and funny. She was just what I needed after that last summer at my parent’s house, and after that first trip here during our fall break, I’ve been coming with her ever since. Spring, summer, and fall, I live for the days when we’ll be here relaxing, and out of the noise and fast pace of the city.
I’m not sure what it is, but the wide open space with the mountains surrounding us makes this one of my favorite places in the world. Maybe it’s time I think about buying a place of my own. There’s no question that I plan on spending endless amounts of time here, and then I would be able to come whenever I wanted.
Emma’s parents’ home is on the southern end of the lake, so every morning we get to see the sunrise and every evening the sunset. Living in New York City, I rarely get to see either, so whenever I’m here, I make it a point not to miss them. I should go for a run, but all I want to do is sit here, enjoy this serene morning, and slow my mind down to match my surroundings.
“Av! We know you’re up; we heard you wander outside. Coffee’s made; come get some.” Emma’s voice echoes through the trees as she calls out to me.
“I’ll be right down,” I holler, just needing a few more minutes here.
Leaning against the railing, I breathe in the crisp, clean air. The sky is golden with the morning sun, and the leaves on the trees have begun to change, speckling the mountainside with shades of yellow, orange, and red. The lake is covered in a quiet peace. Ripples from a kayaker gently break the smooth, glassy water, and a low-lying fog hovers just above the surface. The only sound is of the leaves rustling in the trees that surround the house and the lake. It’s all so beautiful.
A purple finch flies by and lands on top of the feeder hanging on the corner of the deck. A fast warbling song of fourteen notes hits my ears. It’s an up and down cadence that lets me know it’s a male. Male birds sing so handsomely, and I’m always fascinated by the timbre, tonality, and assertiveness of their songs.
Music is my life. I eat, sleep, and breathe it. It's all I've ever known. Everywhere I go and with everything I do, I focus in on the sounds around me. I’ve been given the gift of perfect pitch—a rare auditory phenomenon that gives me the ability to identify or recreate musical notes without the help of a reference tone. If I’m asked what the pitch is of a particular chord in a song or a note played on an instrument, I know it . . . and I’m never wrong. Some say it’s a learned thing, but as far as I know, I’ve always had it. Chords and melodies can come from just about anywhere. Being able to open my ears and listen, it calms me, and I love the challenge of finding sounds and matching them. The simplest things can inspire me . . . like the birds or the rustling of the leaves.
