I blush at the characterization, pleased she can see the work I put in here. I keep plucking at the melody, then crow when I can finally hear where she’s going with it. I fuck up the chords the first go-round, then start over and more or less get it. By the third attempt, I’m adding the lyrics and…Jesus.
I let my eyes find hers. “This is going to be a huge hit, isn’t it?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Maybe. It’s just the first verse and the hook. I’m not sure if I’m the right one to sing it or if it’s better suited for someone a bit fresher and younger.”
I’m shaking my head before she finishes her sentence. “Nope. You remember how LeAnn Rimes and Trisha Yearwood did the same song, and while LeAnn’s version was beautiful and maybe even technically cleaner, Trisha’s version sold it?”
“Yeah. Trisha was old enough for the lyrics to make sense.”
I look down at the battered page in front of me. “This needs to be sung by someone who’s seen some things. This kind of ache…yeah.”
Mac wrinkles her nose and looks off to the side.
“What?”
Taking a deep breath, she scratches at the table. “That song is about a profound love. I can imagine it, but I’ve never experienced it, at least not as an adult. Spent too many years trying to make it to have time for something like that. I’ll feel like a damn fraud if I sing it.”
Again I’m shaking my head before she can finish. “Buddy…if you can write these lyrics, you are capable of these emotions, and that is the opposite of fraudulent.”
Her eyes catch mine, her gaze uncertain. “You really think so?”
I nod. “I’ve been in some good long-term relationships, and I’ve never felt anything like this. But I want to. That’s what these lyrics stir up, Mac. Thewantassociated with love this deep and abiding. That’s why it’s authentic.”
Biting her lip, she slides the paper in front of her. “So, if I change this lyric from ‘I’ve loved you forever’ to something like ‘when I find you, I’ll love you forever…’”
She pauses, makes a few more changes, then slides the paper in front of me. “I had to add a few chords to make it work, but…”
I strum around the new arrangement, but it’s not quite right. She must hear it too. She erases one of the chords, elongating another. “Make ‘I’ll love—’”
“Run ’em together instead of making them distinct,” I say, following her line of thought so easily that it’s thrilling.
She nods, grinning broadly. I grab the page and play it through a couple of times, getting the new melody right. As I layer on her lyrics, she rises, mostly steady on her cane, and walks to the now-boiling pot of water. Stirring in the angel hair, she pulls out the pan and begins browning the ground meat.
“Keep going,” she says, handing me the jar of spaghetti sauce. “But open this first.”
I grin and pop it open for her, then go back to playing what we’ve got on a loop. By the third or fourth time, I try something with a slightly different chord, and Mac spins around.
“Sorry!” I say, removing my hands. “Probably bad form to mess with your notes.”
She rolls her eyes. “Nothing’s precious. We go back and forth all the time on notes and lyrics. I’m looking at you because I like what you did. Can you make that adjustment on the page?”
I nod, and my heart speeds up. I can’t believe I’m writing on Mackenzie Nash’s song sheet.
“Hey, while you’re at it, make a note above the wordforeverto start the high hat there.”
Looking at how she makes notes for herself, I copy her style and pencil in the note. My handwriting is neat, almost mechanical compared to her rushed, slanted notes, and it’s unreal to see our handwriting together on the page.
“Where’s the colander?” she asks, looking through the cabinets.
“Check above the fridge.”
“Got it.”
“Hey, do you have any more of these lined sheets? This one’s getting pretty messy, and I wouldn’t mind transferring the notes over.”
She tosses the spaghetti and sauce together and puts them in bowls. “Uh, sure. Check my backpack.”
I root through it and find a partially open stack of lined pages in plastic wrap. I slide out a couple of sheets and notice a few Mackenzie Nash branded picks.
