“Lucky,” Hunter said.
“I know.” I gestured toward the kitchen. “ Come see the kitchen.”
Lila had given me the kitchen of my dreams, even though I didn’t cook as much as I should. Dark hardwood floors that gleamed even in the gray afternoon light. White cabinets to the ceiling with their original brass hardware, glass fronts on the uppers so you could see the pale dishes stacked inside, contrasted with black marble countertops Three pendant lights hung over the island. A window above the farmhouse sink looked out toward my unruly seaside garden, wild sweet peas beginning their slow climb up the trellis.
Hunter set his guitar case down just inside the doorway and put both hands on the edge of the island, leaning in to look at the marble, then his eyes moved over my six-burner cooktop. “That’s a work of art.”
“Do you like to cook?” I asked.
“Yeah. Margaret insisted I learn when I lived with them and it became a passion of mine.”
“I’m sorry, who’s Margaret.”
He looked at me. “She and Wes are old friends. I’m staying in a cottage on their property. She’s kind of like my mom. It’s a long story.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s okay. When I was ten, my mom left and I never really saw her much after that. My dad was … a session musician … often worked long hours. So Wes, my dad’s best friend, and his wife Margaret semi-adopted me. That was before they moved out here. Margaret wanted to be back on the West Coast. She followed Wes out to Nashville when they were young. Wes was a big producer and manager back in the eighties and nineties. You probably know his work without knowing it.”
“I didn’t realize you were living on their property.”
“That’s right. In addition to their gigantic house, they have a cottage on the property. When I found myself at loose ends, I decided to come stay with them for a while. Or, I should say, Margaret pretty much insisted I come. She has a lot of opinions. The cottage has been ideal. I have privacy, but they’re never far away. Margaret’s love language is feeding people, so I haven’t gone hungry.”
“They’re your family.”
“That’s right,” Hunter said. “Like your ladies.”
“And what about your dad? Is he still with us?”
“No, he died when I was in my mid-twenties. At work. Not a surprise, since that’s where he spent the most time. Heart attack. He went suddenly, guitar in hand.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”
“It was. We had a complicated relationship.” He tilted his head to the side, studying me. “What about you? Are your parents living?”
“No, I lost my mom when I was too young to even remember her. My father raised me alone.” I paused, fighting against the tears that often came when I spoke of him. “My dad was my hero. Died when Tyler was five. Right before I moved here.”
“I feel like there’s more to that story,” Hunter said.
“Yes, but I might need a glass of wine if I’m going to tell you about it.”
“Raincheck, then?”
I smiled at him, nodding. “Sure.”
“What about your office? Do I get to see that on our tour?” Hunter asked. “I have to admit, I’m curious about the place you create magic.”
“You’ve earned the right to see it, since you’ve read my whole catalog.” I walked in that direction, with him right behind me “It’s even clean today. Sometimes, at the end of the deadline, not so much.”
I pushed the door open, wondering what this room where I spent so much of my time looked like to Hunter. The wall of windows faced the ocean, with my writing desk positioned so the horizon was always in my sightline. My yellow sweater slung over the back of my chair. “That’s my lucky sweater. Super ugly.”
“Do you have to wear it to write?” Hunter asked, completely serious. He understood the rituals of a writer.
“Icouldwrite without it, but I don’t want to.”
We shared a grin, before he noticed my turntable. It sat on the low credenza against the interior wall. The record collection filled the shelf below it in the same order my dad had kept them, sorted not alphabetically but chronologically, the way he’d acquired them, so that flipping through them was something like walking through his life.
Hunter crossed to it and crouched down, beginning to flip through the records.
