“We'll try to keep it clean for the morning commute,” Jami said.
Carlene slipped into the corner behind the glass, legal pad tucked under her arm.She caught Jami’s eye through the reflection and gave a small nod that steadied him like a drum count.Livia stood near her, quiet, that neat calm in place.Tony took a spot by the door, phone set to do not disturb, eyes on the room like a lighthouse.
Diane slid a pair of headphones toward him.“We go live in two.”
Carter pointed to the chair across from his mic.“You sit there, I'll try to be charming, and if I fail, just sing and everyone will forget me.”
The on-air light glowed red.Carter did the fast patter, time checks, weather, and a traffic note about a stalled truck near the marina.Then he smiled the way you can hear even if you cannot see it.
“Blossom Springs has itself a morning, folks,” he said.“Because we’ve got Jami Hart in the studio, and rumor has it there’s a new line floating around the bluff that has people at Mae’s humming to their coffee.Good morning, Jami.”
“Morning,” Jami said into the mic.He remembered Carlene’s advice.Keep it simple.Keep it true.
“You could live anywhere,” Carter said.“Why here?”
“Because I need somewhere that doesn’t care about my set list,” Jami said.“Somewhere that smells like breakfast and ocean and old wood.I grew up in this town.I like that Blossom Springs feels like it knows how to breathe.”
Carter nodded, pleased.“I like that answer.Now tell me about this line.You sing that it has to be more than a feeling.What is more than a feeling?”
Jami let the question sit.He could see himself reflected in the glass.He could see Carlene too, still and focused, waiting like she always waited, for the truth to show up.
“More than noise,” he said.“Quiet after the noise.Company that feels like family.There is a part of this work that looks like a dream, and it is.There's another part where the room is quiet, and it's you and your guitar, and whether you have something honest to say.I want more of the second part.”
“Buddy,” Carter said softly.“Preach.”
He tipped his chin at Sean.“You two brought a guitar.Would you sing a touch of that line for folks headed to work?”
“Happy to,” Jami said.
Sean took the second chair, flipped the case latches, and handed over the guitar they always called Sunday because it sounded like church when the air was right.Jami tuned by ear and breathed with the instrument until the room felt ready to hold what he was about to do.
He sang the chorus into the mic.He didn't fill the space.He let the words carry their own weight.It has to be more than a feeling.It was simple and it was enough.
When the last note settled, nobody spoke for a few beats.In the control room, the board op swiped at an eye.Carter cleared his throat like he had to make room for his voice again.
“Well, all right then,” he said, brightening.“If you’re in line at Mae’s, be patient with each other.These folks are about to walk in, and the place will forget its own name for ten minutes.”
They wrapped quickly.Carter shook his hand like a friend and asked for a photo to send to his wife.Diane stuck another sticker on the back of his phone.Tony signed a couple of papers and thanked everyone by name.When they stepped into the Florida heat, Jami felt the good kind of tired, the one that starts in your chest and eases out of your shoulders because you did the thing you said you would do.
Mae’s Bakery looked like a postcard.Blue awning.Hand-lettered chalkboard with the day’s specials.An open door with a bell that rang like a laugh.Inside, it smelled like butter and sugar and coffee and the sweet vanilla glaze Hanna used on everything that did not run away first.
The place went quiet for half a second when the band walked in.Then the hum rose again, louder, like a wave pulling back to gather itself.
“Morning, Hanna,” Livia called, familiar and warm.
Hanna herself popped up from behind the counter, flour on her cheek, eyes bright as the bell at the door.“Livia, sweetheart.Tony.You brought your troublemakers.And you brought Jami.”
“We did,” Tony said.“He promised not to cause a riot.”
Hanna pointed a baking spatula at him.“No one in this room believes that.Now come take these trays to that corner table and let people stop pretending they're not looking at you.”
They carried muffins and croissants like offerings to a very happy crowd.The room closed in with soft bodies and hopeful eyes.Phones lifted, then lowered.The first brave one stepped forward, a teen with a backpack and a purple nail polish bruise on her thumb.
“Could I get a selfie?”she asked.“My mom is going to pass out.”
“I'll pick her up,” Jami said.“Promise.”
They took one photo, then two, then it was a line that was not a line, just neighbors bumping gently against neighbors, smiling and waiting their turn.Jami asked names.He asked what people were eating.He told a man at the end of the case to get the cinnamon roll because it would change his week.The man grinned like he'd already been changed before he took a bite.
