The older man turned his attention to Caleb. “If we open the parlor again, what would you do with it?”
Caleb gaped for a moment then recovered. “To start, Ariel’s band needs a place to rehearse, beginning tomorrow night, and the parlor has great acoustics.”
“It would bring extra income too, since we’d pay rent,” Ariel said. “And you could act as host.”
Granddad’s eyes shone with a hint of hope. “What would I do?”
Ariel took a bite of her sandwich. Almost as good as Chicken Salad Chick. “Welcome everyone at the entrance, monitor the refreshment table, and call the restaurant kitchen for refills. Keep an eye on everything so the rest of us can focus on our work.”
“And play some slap bass whenever you think a song needs it,” Caleb said after a long drink of tea. “Think you can still make your old upright sing?”
“I can pop with the best of them.” The set of his jaw said he meant it. “Let me play a song or two with you at rehearsal, and you can use the parlor.”
Ariel hadn’t realized how badly she’d wanted him to agree until her eyes began to sting. She lowered her gaze for a moment and blinked away her surprising tears. “Maybe you could teach me to slap,” she finally said. “I can pluck and bow a bass, but I never did get the hang of popping.”
Later, after Granddad beat them soundly at rummy, they said goodnight.
“I’ll get to the parlor early enough to greet everyone at tomorrow night’s rehearsal. Michelle has the keys.”
Caleb closed the door, leaving it unlocked as his grandfather wished, and turned to Ariel. “I have no idea how, but you accomplished more with my grandfather than I have since I got here.”
“He doesn’t like helplessness. He wants you to need him.” She gave him a little smile. “Everybody needs someone to serve.”
She sneaked a glance at Caleb and held back a grin.Even if the person you’re serving doesn’t yet know how to accept the help.
Chapter Nine
The next afternoon, after sitting at the parlor piano for the past hour, Ariel faced the facts. Tonight she had to tell the truth to the seven best writers in the country music industry: none of their new songs would work.
Worse, they’d delivered great new music. But nothing fresh.
Earl’s new song played on repeat in her mind. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to present it to the band. However, Aunt Dahlia would think it strayed too far from their brand. Ariel needed to show it to her before the meeting and get her approval.
But her aunt had left early in the morning again. So, in her favorite straight-leg jeans, a lightweight white sweater, and Golden Goose sneakers, Ariel had ridden a rented bike to the farm for biscuits and gravy and grits with her family. Despite the fifty-five-degree weather that felt chilly to this Southern girl. Sammy’s lackluster greeting hadn’t warmed her any either. Not surprising, considering his struggles. But it had hurt. Even his new Barry the Bear toys hadn’t broken through to him.
Within the last few minutes, the sky had darkened and the wind picked up, stirring the cedar branches beyond the parlor’s wide porch. A chill still hung in the air, even inside, so thewarmer clothes felt good in this elegant room that spoke of past provision and opulence, its atmosphere dripping of long-ago hospitality and love.
Oh, the memories…
As she enjoyed this room alone for the first time, it transported her back to that evening—those last few hours she’d lived on island. Snow melting in her hair, a few bruises on her knees, and a torn left leg of her snow pants. An older boy in the crowd of shivering children giving her a ring of brass keys and asking her to unlock the big door so he could grab a stack of firewood. She’d tried eleven keys before the heavy black-painted door swung open.
Ariel had thought she’d entered heaven itself as she gazed around the old Victorian-styled parlor with its fireplace popping and filling the room with delicious woodsmoke. Mr. Kennedy played “Winterreise” by Schubert on an ancient-looking violin while his wife accompanied him on the piano, the aroma of hot cider with cinnamon and the fire’s warmth making the evening perfect.
How simple life had been back then.
Later, in the parlor, the air sparkled with the excitement of the production team’s first meeting and the band’s first rehearsal. But Ariel’s flicker had just about fizzled out, just from the thought of presenting the new song to Aunt Dahlia.
Ariel gazed across the parlor, which had come alive when their team—minus Aunt Dahlia—gathered around antique tables arranged in a circle near the food. The way they devoured the massive platters of fried chicken, ham and cheese sliders, pimento cheese sandwiches, old-fashioned corn pudding, pecan pie, and hummingbird cake, her aunt had better hurry, or she’d go hungry.
Ariel grabbed half of a pimento cheese sandwich and a glass of sweet tea and handed a plateful of sliders and corn puddingto Caleb. “I spent last night and this morning researching and brainstorming new ideas for the band. I decided to present Earl’s new song. But things could get ugly if my aunt doesn’t like it.”
Caleb chose the nearest table, set down his plate. “Even with all this Southern comfort food?”
Ariel sat next to him. “Your supper menu will improve her mood considerably. How did you find someone to cook like this way up here?”
He cocked his head toward the door. “See that dark-haired guy over there, fussing with the food? That’s my chef, Marcus. He grew up down south, in Vicksburg, so I asked him to make a Southern meal.” Caleb gave her a mischievous grin. “For y’all.”
Despite her worries, Ariel couldn’t help laughing at the way he butchered a Southern accent.
