“Next week,” Margaret said. “She wants to hole up here like the old days.”
“We wrote some good songs together,” I said.
“And you’ll write some more good ones,” Wes said. “The two of you have always brought the best out of each other.”
“Jack Wilder’s people called. They want to record a duet with him and Ivy,” Wes said. “Asked if you had anything they could consider.”
Jack Wilder’s career had taken off in the last five years. Before leaving Nashville, I’d written a few hits for him, one which catapulted him into one of the biggest country singers out there. Ivy and I met him in person a few years back at one of the award shows. “Ivy was enamored with him, which was pretty funny. Usually, she’s impervious to men.” I chuckled at the memory. “She was tongue-tied, which I’d never seen.”
“He’s wicked handsome,” Margaret said.
“Jack’s good people,” I said. “And he has a great voice. But you know I don’t have anything for them.”
“Maybe something will come to you, once Ivy’s here,” Margaret said.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Jacks’ single now,” Margaret said. “I just read it in People magazine. Broke up with that actress. The one from that detective show set in Hawaii?”
“Sure, yeah.” I had no idea who she was talking about.
“Anyway, maybe they’ll fall in love while recording one of your songs,” Margaret said.
“You never give up on love, do you?” I asked.
“Not a chance.” Margaret smiled at me from across the table. “You look tired. How was your night?”
“Seraphina came in with her son. Tyler. He asked me to give him guitar lessons.”
Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Lessons? Do they know who you are?”
“Yeah, they do. But around here it doesn’t matter. I’m just a bartender who plays guitar.”
“You’re more than that, but okay,” Margaret said. “And Seraphina Sinclair is someone worthy of you.”
I shook my head, grimacing. “I told her I read all of her books over the winter. Just blurted that right out like an idiot.”
“I would think she’d be flattered,” Margaret said.
I shrugged and picked up my glass. “Anyway, I told them yes.”
Margaret tilted her head to one side, studying me. “Interesting.”
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Margaret gave me one of her sassy smiles.
I drank the last of my wine. “I should turn in. It’s getting late.”
“Have a good rest,” Margaret said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
I said goodnight and then let myself out into the chilly April night, thinking about Ivy and guitar lessons and a certain redheaded romance author who made my knees weak.
The cottage wasa two-minute walk across the lawn, past Margaret’s herb garden that wafted scents of lavender and thyme as I passed by.
I stood for a moment just outside the front door of the cottage Wes and Margaret were kind enough to let me occupy for the foreseeable future. The sky was clear tonight, glittering with stars. I looked directly up at the Milky Way, bright outside of the city lights. Below the cliff, waves crashed against the craggy hillside.
Wes and Margaret had built the cottage for Margaret’s mother, who had lived with them for the last years of her life. Gray weathered shingles adorned the outside, mirroring the main house, with a modest porch where Margaret's mother had liked to have her coffee.
