“You got that right,” Margaret said.
“It’s going to be our first hit as an indie,” Wes said. “I’m pleased as punch.”
“I am too,” Ivy said.
“I’m thankful for the muse who brought it to me,” Hunter said, looking at me.
I smiled, aching with longing. To touch him. To wrap myself in his arms and teach him how to stay. Out loud I said, “Who knew being a muse was so easy?”
“For you, yeah,” Hunter said.
We stared at each other for a moment. I forgot there was anyone else in the room, until Ivy spoke.
“What did you think, Tyler?” Ivy asked.
My son had been unusually still and quiet during the music, his gaze fixed somewhere in front of him on the floor. But he looked up when Ivy asked him the question. “I’m in awe, to be honest. That Hunter could make a song out of just a line someone said to him is hard to imagine. I don’t get how anyone does that, but I’m sure glad they do.”
“It’s just a three chord song,” Hunter said. “Not the cure to cancer.”
“It’s more than that,” Tyler said. “A song like that makes people feel less alone. Understood on a level we can’t really explain.”
“Which is what art should do,” Margaret said. “You’re a smart young man.”
“Thanks,” Tyler said, cheeks flushing.
My son and his old soul.
“Should we check on the ice cream?” Wes asked.
“For sure.” Tyler unfolded himself from the floor and disappeared into the kitchen with Wes.
Margaret and Ivy excused themselves, both needing the bathroom, leaving me alone with Hunter.
He set Georgia aside and got up, crossing the few feet between us and offered his hand to help me up.
“That’s a really good song,” I said. “Both of them.”
“I’m just glad I’m finding my groove again.” He kissed me softly. “Thank you.”
“I want to teach you how to stay.”
“Good. Because I want to stay.”
Tyler’s voice called to us from the kitchen. “Ice cream’s ready.”
I had to smile at the excitement in his voice. Tyler might have an old soul, but ice cream reminded him and me that he was still a kid.
Hunter took my hand and we headed toward my boy and a bowl of that strawberry ice cream. But I didn’t need it to feel satisfied. That had already been taken care of by my favorite songwriter.
11
HUNTER
I’d found the spot a few weeks after arriving in Willet Cove. A small cove below the headlands, accessible by a path down the cliff face that most people walked past without noticing. The beach was maybe fifty yards of coarse sand, sheltered on three sides by rock, open to the Pacific on the fourth. I’d thought—what a romantic a spot for a date and had felt very sorry for myself. Now I had someone I wanted to take there.
Seraphina had agreed to an afternoon date, even though it meant hours away from her work. She teased me about being a bad influence, but had seemed delighted by the idea of a picnic on a sunny spring day.
I’d packed the basket that morning with a loaf of Margaret’s sourdough, good cheese and salami from the market, and a carton of strawberries that didn’t look nearly as good as the ones from Lila’s garden.
