She shakes her head, unsurprisingly stubborn. Pulling her battered old guitar into her lap, she responds, “I don’t wanna be dependent on meds for the rest of my life.”
“Wow, dramatic,” I say, widening my eyes for comic effect. She shoots me the bird before examining the damage.
While she does that, I continue, “First, I suggested it as part of yourrecovery, which isn’t infinite. Second, you just had a major brain event. Having to take a few pills, even on a long-term basis, is hardly the worst outcome.”
She huffs a disgruntled sound, even as she tilts a listening ear in my direction.
I snicker under my breath. “Or you can continue to be a miserable old cow who becomes increasingly distant from her friends to the point where she’s this forgotten old has-been who once had a career.”
Her mouth drops open as I pull the guitar from her hands, flipping it this way and that to examine it.
“Huh. Must’ve thrown it with your weak hand. I mean, that’s a pretty decent crack down the face of it, and you somehow managed to break off a chunk of the heel, but the neck and bridge are still solidly attached. Hell, I doubt you even put it out of tune,” I say, strumming the strings.
Okay, it’s a little out of tune, but not bad. I get it back to playing ready with just a couple quick adjustments. I smile, hitting a few chords to show Mac it’s not all bad. Her mouth forms anOand stays that way for several seconds.
“What? You’re not the only person in the world who can play guitar.”
“Do you…can you sing? Like, can you hold a tune?”
Grinning, I hit a few chords I know she’ll know and sing a couple of lines from my favorite song of hers—the first one that really got her noticed. My voice won’t win any awards, but I can hold a tune around a campfire.
Her jaw drops even farther, and a quiet laugh bubbles out of my chest as my hands go still on an instrument that will no doubt have a place in the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum.
“Can you read music?” she asks, pulling a folded-up paper from her back pocket.
“I normally play by ear, but…yeah. I think I remember the music lessons my dad tried to give me.”
Shaking her head, she unfolds the paper and holds it up for me to read. I take in a sharp breath, realizing what I’m seeing. It’s a lined music sheet with notes and lyrics scratched out and notes in the margins. It’s rough, but I can sorta see where she’s going with it.
Grimacing, I lean forward and try to make sense of the scribble, strumming the chords as written.
“Wait,” she says, pointing at her cane. “Hand me that. Let’s go to the table.”
Knowing she’d hate for me to help her up, I dutifully hand her the cane and hover, just in case she needs me. With a determined look, Mac balances and pulls herself to standing. It’s not a masterclass in elegance, mind you, but she gets the job done.
Stubborn cuss.
I bite the inside of my cheek.That is not sexy. It’s not, Kin.
“Hold up,” I say, stepping into the kitchen.
Grabbing the big pot from the cabinet by the stove, I fill it with water and set it on a high flame.
“I don’t need you to cook for me,” she says, rooting around in the little desk, pulling up a pencil.
“I’m not cooking for you. I skipped lunch and need to eat, especially if you’re putting me to work.”
Grumbling, Mac lowers herself to a chair at the table and gestures for me to continue. I salt the water, then grab the guitar, pulling the other chair next to her. She spreads out the paper, erasing something and making some chord adjustments before shoving it over to me.
I squint, reading the revised notes. Tilting dangerously on her chair, she reaches over and turns on the desk lamp. I don’t bother nagging her about it because she’ll ignore me anyway.
“Better,” I say, lightly playing with the chords.
She’s patient as I pick out the song.
“Sorry I’m slow—I’m sure you can look at a page like this and just begin playing it without any practice.”
She shakes her head. “I’m impressed. You’re a medical professional, a cabin refurbisher, and you know how to read music. A real Renaissance woman.”
