If any location could inspire a new vision for the future and give her direction and a path, the Grand Hotel was that place.
“They loved you at the Country Music Awards,” Aunt Dahlia said.
Honestly, did she always know exactly what Ariel was thinking?
“I heard Molly criticizing you that night. You still stew about it.” Her aunt swiveled her recliner and leaned forward, took Ariel’s hand. “I know from experience that a bad word from a peer feels worse than a bad review from a stranger. But Molly did not take home an award. You’re still the best alto in the biz.”
“Seems like every time I get on a stage, she’s there to throw me off.” Molly Banks. One of Ariel and Aunt Dahlia’s competitors for the coveted Single of the Year award. Ariel hadlet the insult slide at the time. But the woman’s voice, smooth as milk gravy on a biscuit, came back and haunted her at all the worst times, just as it had the first time she’d said it, back when they were both child stars.You’re good, but you’d never win anything if Dahlia Denton didn’t prop you up.
Three years ago, when Molly had slammed her in public, another musician defended Ariel and had impacted her so much, she’d all but forgotten the insult. Until her latest failure, which she’d kept from even dear Aunt Dahlia. Ariel had selected new music, recorded a solo album, and sworn their manager to secrecy as he sent it to their record label’s producer last month.
He’d rejected it quicker than an eighth note.
It’s good, but it doesn’t offer anything you and Miss Dahlia don’t already give me.
The producer’s words never drifted far from her thoughts.
“Molly has a great voice, but she doesn’t have your heart.” Aunt Dahlia’s tone turned silky with affection. “You touch people with your music. Molly just sings and prances around on the stage, treating the audience like a commodity to hoard and manipulate. Just keep lovin’ your fans, and don’t pay any attention to her.”
Having worked in the fickle music industry since childhood, Aunt Dahlia should know. However, the producer’s rejection had told Ariel otherwise.
By the time the jet landed at tiny Jonathon Island Airport an hour before sundown, Ariel’s thoughts turned to her childhood home. A month ago, when she’d landed here, she had only one day to spend on island—the day of her cousin Dani Sullivan Stone’s wedding—since their spring touring season had begun. Her time with her family hadn’t amounted to much more than sitting together at the wedding supper. She hadn’t even seen their old white farmhouse.
But soon she’d find her parents, her brother, and her nephew waiting for her at the other side of the terminal.
In Nashville, June had arrived with the heat of midsummer. But here in northern Michigan, the waning sun and cool breeze as she disembarked felt like a welcome change. She slipped her arms into the denim jacket she’d shed in the plane.
“I can’t wait to see all the town’s businesses reopened. Last year, some of them looked as if they’d lost hope and knew they were dying but couldn’t quite give in.” Ariel finally set foot on island soil—or rather, its runway pavement—with her Martin N-20 guitar, her pink crossbody bag and tote, and a giant Barry the Bear gift bag containing three stuffed bears for her nephew, Sam. “Whenever Mama talked about all the loss the island suffered the past eleven years, I almost wished I wouldn’t have to come back until someone—probably Dani—restored it to its former glory.”
Aunt Dahlia reached the ground, carrying her handbag, guitar, and rolling briefcase, and gave Ariel that big, toothy smile that always made her believe everything would eventually work out. Well, almost always.
“But we get to help bring back the island’s tourism through the music festival next month. Between the proceeds from our concert and my cash donation, they’ll have no problem renovating a couple more abandoned shops on Main. We’ll draw big crowds to the island. And we’re spending a month in the Grand Hotel’s most expensive suite.” Aunt Dahlia’s voice turned businesslike, her Southern-country accent deepening as they crossed the tarmac. “The songwriters start rollin’ in tomorrow, the production team later, and the band bus left Nashville this morning. That’s a total of twenty more people staying here, and we’re all spending money on hotels, restaurants, souvenirs—and clothing stores.”
“Plus the six big-name bands who agreed to perform after you contacted them. Aunt Dahlia, you’ve given so much to Jonathon Island through the years. You’re the most generous person in show business.”
“I know I am, darlin’.” Her big soprano laugh rolled out from deep inside. “I have a street named after me in this little ole town to prove it.”
They rounded the pretty little white terminal building with its copper-roofed breezeway and saw only a green dray wagon, pulled by a pair of brown Percherons, on the road ahead.
Aunt Dahlia squinted against the low-hanging sun, then took her Jep Horn sunglasses from her hot-pink Lady Dior handbag and slipped them on, looked around. “Where is everybody? I thought your family and Dani would meet us.”
Ariel pulled out her phone to check messages. Sure enough, she’d missed a text from Dani twenty minutes ago. She skimmed it, then dropped her phone back into her handbag. “Ethan and Sam stayed home, but Mom, Dad, and Dani should get here anytime now.”
Aunt Dahlia set her hands on her hips, looking cute in her silver-studded flare jeans and matching long-sleeved shirt, and glanced around the deserted grounds. She cocked her head toward a bench facing a wooded area bordered with lilacs in full bloom. “Well, I guess we’re gonna wait.”
As Ariel followed her aunt to the bench, the fresh, fragrant air brought back early memories of flower-picking excursions all over the island with four-years-older Dani. Town would smell even better, with hundreds of purple bushes blooming and perfuming the harborside streets.
The scent of lilacs still wafted through her dreams when least expected, a memorial to her earliest years, their fragrance strong and powerful to evoke a sense of home that had begun to driftaway when she first moved to Nashville at age ten. The details of life on the little pumpkin farm of her childhood had also faded.
Her few trips back to the island since hadn’t strengthened those memories. It seemed her time at home on the farm always flew by in a rush, and she hadn’t come home during the years her parents lived with Ethan and Sam off island. If only she could reenact those quiet evenings at home around the big farm table with her parents, her brother, Ethan, and her sister, Charlotte.
Especially Sam, Ethan’s eight-year-old son with Down syndrome.
Maybe this time, things would turn out different.
The big wagon drew nearer, the only vehicle on the narrow road, two dark Percherons pulling and a tawny-haired youth driving. The man sitting next to him held a corncob pipe between his teeth and wore a gray vintage workingman’s costume that matched the boy’s. Stroking his long, white beard, he kept his eye on both the driver and the road.
The boy stopped the wagon a few feet from Ariel and Aunt Dahlia, looking about thirteen and quite cheeky, and jumped down from his perch. With a broad grin and mischief in his eyes, he handed Ariel an oldMiss Dahlia for President, Ariel for VPT-shirt and a Sharpie. “Me and my grandpa will take your stuff to the hotel. But would you autograph this before I give you the bad news? You too, Miss Dahlia. Because you won’t stay after you hear.”
