Throughout the tour, it’s clear he doesn’t have a clue what he’s going to do about furniture. Our bedrooms tipped me off he had done little in the way of decorating, but entire rooms sit empty. There is no dining table, no comfortable chairs, no TV stand or artwork.
What he has are boxes, a seventy-inch TV sitting on the floor, and a couch that, if he told me it came from his college apartment, I would believe him. I glimpsed into his bedroom and found at least some matching furniture in there. I dared not linger. The last thing I want him to catch a whiff of is my interest. It would be stupid of me to let a man of his age think there’s anything between us.
Ugh, look at me, thinking there’s even the possibility of something between us. Who the hell do I think I am?
Despite the lack of furniture and decor, his rough-hewn, winery-like home is beautiful and comforting all on its own. Even as the wind and rain blow outside and the storm’s hum muffles the sound of everything else, there’s an undeniable sense of safety here. Like even if aWizard of Oz-style tornado tore in and picked up the house, there’d be nothing to fear.
What the hell is that about?
“There’s one more thing I want to show you,” he says, before sweeping open a glass door in his basement. It’s then that I realize where Jonah has focused his furnishing attention. “This is my studio.”
Delta’s jaw drops at the sight of the control panel. “Whoa. It looks like a spaceship in here.”
All at once, my sense of safety feels both brittle and reinforced, and I have to stop in my tracks. I grew up in rooms like this. Fell asleep on control room couches as my parents sang me to sleep. Watched in rapture as a song found its roots and planted itself in my soul. I lit up like fireworks the first time they invited me to record with them. I can still feel the press of mandolin strings tight beneath my grip as I tried to reel in my unbridled joy.
But though these are wonderful memories, they’re intertwined with ones of Greg. An alluring man, he was once revered in music producing and trusted by everyone. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Studios were once a place I felt at home—I felt special and cool and powerful. Greg extinguished that. He disposed of the evidence and covered his tracks, oblivious or uncaring of what these rooms meant to me.
“Are you”—I start, but have to clear my throat of the crack—“some kind of music producer?”
“It’s just a hobby. But music management was my major in college.”
I lower my brow. “And you took a nature study course from me?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It was a cultural enrichment. It was either that, which my brother had all the notes for and could pass them along to me, or take something like philosophy.”
The image of Jonah Johanssen partaking in meaningful, philosophical discussions is slightly more unrealistic than a biology course, I’ll give him that.
“You know, I knew when you turned something in that was Dane’s work, right?”
He pulls at the back of his neck and groans. “Ugh, yeah. You threatened to fail me multiple times. And then you did fail me at the end of the semester for plagiarism."
An affectionate smile lifts the corners of my lips and my mood. “Oh yeah. Good times.”
“Did you know Renée is an incredible singer?” my unhelpful sister asks. “She also plays the mandolin.”
Jonah’s eyes round and he beams. “I have a mandolin in here!” He opens the door to the tracking room, where I fight back a gasp at all the instruments lined up and hanging on the walls. Even though most are covered, I can easily spot a mandolin case.
The girls head straight for the keyboard.
“Why do you have so many instruments?” I ask.
“I can play most of them. Music is everything to me. It’s like an itch that needs to be scratched every day.” He turns to Amber, who’s gliding her hand against a symbol. “Do you play?”
“Oh, no. Renée got all the talent from our parents, sadly. What I got was a crippling sense of stage fright.”
“Your parents are musical?”
I bob my head. “Mom is, and Dad was. He died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Mom used to perform on stage with them,” Delta says from her bench seat next to Lo. “But she doesn’t sing anymore.”
My heart twists in an uncomfortable knot as Jonah’s stare flicks between Amber and me.
“Have you ever heard of David and Ophelia Wilde?” Amber hedges.
