As if to remind me that time is fleeting, a moment gone before we capture it fully in memory, a grandfather clock ticked softly in the corner.
We had a corner suite on the third floor with tall windows, a four-poster bed draped in white linen, and a clawfoot tub in the bathroom. Walls were papered in a delicate floral pattern, faded to the perfect shade of soft rose. A writing desk sat near the window, with a view of a magnolia tree.
“This is perfect,” I said to Hunter. “Thank you.”
“Ivy helped me pick it out.” He drew me close, kissing me. “But we can’t stay. I have a lot to show you. We’ll enjoy it when we get back.”
After we’d freshened up, we headed back downstairs for our tour with Earl.
We started downtown, the SUV rolling past the Ryman Auditorium, its red brick façade and arched windows unchanged since 1892.
“Think of all the greats who have performed there over the years,” I said.
“It’s a special place. I played there with Ivy a few years back.”
“I would have loved to see that,” I said.
We drove down Broadway, past the honky-tonks with their neon signs and open doors, music spilling onto the sidewalks even at two in the afternoon. I spotted Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, Robert’s Western World, The Stage, all names I’d heard of at one time or another. Places that had launched careers and probably broken countless hearts.
“That’s where I played my first open mic,” Hunter said, pointing to a bar with a battered wooden sign. “I was so nervous I blacked out. Don’t remember a thing about the three and a half minutes I performed.”
We turned onto the tree-lined streets of Music Row, the modest buildings that housed the offices and studios where country music was made. Hunter pointed out Sony, Warner, Universal, and some of the smaller studios where he’d recorded demos, pitched songs, and waited for calls that sometimes came and sometimes didn’t.
“This is where my dad spent a majority of his life,” Hunter said. “Playing guitar for whoever they asked him to. His whole purpose was wrapped up in this business.”
I caught the sadness in his voice. Even after all these years, he still longed for time with his father.
Earl drove us through East Nashville next. There were hip coffee shops and vintage stores, Victorian cottages painted in bright colors.
“This is where artists and musicians can still afford rent,” Hunter said. “I lived just down the street there for three years. The bathroom was so small I had to duck my head to shower.”
We drove through Belle Meade, with its grand estates and ancient oaks, and past The Meadowlark Café, modest from the outside but inside magic happened.
“Earl, can you take us down Woodland Street? Toward the old Eastland neighborhood?” Hunter asked.
“Sure thing.”
The neighborhood we entered was working-class, a little worn around the edges, but still emanating pride. There were small brick houses with chain-link fences and uncut lawns. Kids rode bikes on cracked sidewalks. A corner store with a faded Coca-Cola sign felt like it belonged in a book.
“Just another block, Earl,” Hunter said. “And then please pull over.”
Earl did so, pulling into a vacant spot on the street.
“There it is. The yellow one with the brown trim. I lived there until I was ten.” Hunter gestured toward a small duplex with two stories and faded paint. An abandoned red wagon lay on its side just inside the fence. Drawn curtains hid whatever was inside. He paused, his gaze far away. “It’s a lot more rundown than I remember.”
I reached for his hand. “Is it difficult to see it again?”
“Kind of, yeah. Brings back a lot of memories.” His voice was steady, but his fingers tightened around mine. “The day my mom left, my dad had stayed overnight at the studio. I don’t know why. Maybe they’d had a fight. I don’t remember. All I know is, I came home from school and she was gone. Closets empty. The kitchen was left alone, except she took the good knives.” He shook his head. “My dad went on and on about those knives. They were a wedding gift from his cousin.”
“It wasn’t the knives.”
“Yeah, I know that now.” His jaw flexed. “At the time I thought it was so weird. Like why do you care about knives when Mom’s gone? But I understand now. After Dana left me, I obsessed for months about this nice set of towels Margaret had given us for Christmas. I loved those towels.”
“I’ll get you new towels.”
He squeezed my hand. “Can they be blue? I like blue.”
“They can be whatever color you want.”
