“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”
“Oh yes, I’m having a good time. And can’t wait to have more of it.”
This time I made him blush.
The next afternoon,my stomach had butterflies as we walked in to The Meadowlark Café for the first time. The room was intimate, with maybe ninety seats arranged around a small circular stage. The walls were covered with photographs of performers from decades past, handwritten set-lists, and signed posters.
“This place feels like home,” Hunter said. “I spent a lot of evenings here back in the day.”
A woman behind the bar looked up and broke into a smile. “Hunter Sloan. As I live and breathe.”
“Hey, Loretta.”
A small woman with salt and pepper hair and wide-set eyes, Loretta came out to greet us, hugging Hunter. “It’s good to see you. You’re looking handsome as ever.”
“You’re looking fine yourself,” Hunter said. “Loretta, this is Seraphina. She’s my?—”
“I know who she is.” Loretta’s gaze swept the length of me. “You’re the writer. The one who finally had the guts to call Dana out on her lies.”
Heat traveled from my chest to my cheeks. “It’s my red hair. Temper got the better of me.”
“You did good. Hunter’s one of my favorite people, and he deserved better than what she gave him.” She squeezed my hand. “Now let me get you two settled before we open the doors. You two should have the best table in the house.”
She led us to a small table right in front of the stage.
“We’ve got a good lineup tonight,” Loretta said. “Few local acts. Maybe a surprise or two.” She winked at Hunter. “Can I get you something to drink?”
We ordered beers, and I took in the room while we waited. The photographs on the walls told a hundred stories. Young faces full of hope, some of whom had gone on to fill stadiums, others who’d faded into obscurity. But they’d all stood on this stage. They’d all had their moment to prove their merit.
“This place is amazing,” I said.
“It’s about the music here, like it should be.”
The doors opened at six, and the room filled quickly. By seven, every seat was taken and people lined the walls. The energy shifted to anticipation humming beneath the conversation and laughter.
The first act was a young woman with a guitar and a voice that reminded me of early Emmylou Harris. The second was an older man who told stories between songs, each one funnier than the last. The crowd was warm and responsive, hanging on every note and every word.
Then Loretta took the stage.“We’ve got a special guest tonight.” The room went still. “Someone who got her start right here, fifteen years ago. She’s come a long way since then, but she wanted to come home tonight. Ladies and gentlemen—Ivy James.”
The room erupted.
My mouth dropped open. I hadn’t known she would be here. Had Hunter? I glanced at him, and he looked the opposite of surprised. He looked conspiratorial.
“Why is she here?” I whispered.
But Hunter didn’t answer, just took my hand under the table.
Ivy walked out from the back, guitar in hand, wearing jeans and a simple white blouse. For a second I caught a glimpse of what she must have looked like back then. Twenty and innocent, oozing with talent and hope, maybe thinking about making her Mama proud.
“Hey, y’all,” Ivy said into the microphone. “It’s good to be home. My friend Hunter Sloan’s in the audience tonight.”
Hunter lifted his hand. The crowd clapped.
“He wrote this one, and I was lucky enough to get to sing it. We released it a few weeks back, and we’ll include it in the new record coming this summer.”
More clapping. A few cheers.
She sang “Or Something Like That Anyway” to a silent, enchanted audience. When she was done, the room exploded with shouts and whistles, plus enthusiastic clapping.
