Page 80 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

“Not this one,” Jinnie says firmly. “Jack’s been through enough. If Atlas wants him, it’s on his terms. No more jumping through hoops for the sake of marketability. No more labels trying to turn him into something he’s not. And no more Jumping Jack.”

I sit there, letting Jinnie take the lead, my chest swelling with pride and gratitude. She’s fearless, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m in control of my own future.

Martin nods, tapping his pen against the table as if considering her demands. “All right,” he says finally. “We can make that work. But understand, Jack, this isn’t going to be the same kind of ride Rockline gave you. No private jets, no penthouse suites—at least not at first. We’re talking grassroots here. Small venues, intimate shows, letting the music speak for itself.”

“I don’t need the glitz,” I say. “I just want to make music that matters again.”

Jinnie glances at me with a soft smile before turning back to Martin. “And what about touring? We’ll need clear boundaries there too. No back-to-back shows without breaks, no pushing him to the point of exhaustion.”

“First, we start small. We record a new album with the sound we’ve been seeing lately...not the crap he was singing. We’ll talk tour once the record comes out.”

Jinnie nods her approval. “Okay. Once you make the changes to the contract, send it over and we’ll have his attorney review it.”

I wasn’t aware I had an attorney. I fired the last guy once I figured out he screwed me over along with everyone else.

“That works,” Martin says before extending his hand. “I look forward to doing business with you, Jack. You seem like a solid guy.” He turns to Jinnie and grins. “And I’m terrified to do business with you, but I think I like the idea of having someone looking out for our artist’s best interests.”

One Year Later

Jinnie’s hand lace with mine over the console of my new SUV. This trip has been a long time coming. I’m glad she’s here with me. I don’t think I could have done it without her. I have come to realize I need her far more than she needs me. Without her, I’m lost.

“You okay?” she asks, squeezing my fingers.

I glance at the farmhouse coming into view—the peeling white paint, the sagging porch swing, the fields stretching endlessly behind it. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

I pull up the familiar driveway. Nothing has changed. Except me. It’s been nearly two years since I’ve been here. My stomach is in knots as I pull the SUV to a stop.

Dad waits on the porch, his work boots dusty, his hat in his hands. He looks older. Smaller. The years of silence between us hang heavy in the air as we climb the steps.

“Jack.” His voice is gruffer than I remember.

“Dad. This is Jinnie.”

Jinnie smiles, extending a hand. “Mr. Hayes.”

Dad ignores it, pulling her into a stiff hug instead. “Call me Dan. Come in, everyone’s going to want to see you.”

The house smells like bacon and burnt coffee. It’s a familiar smell that makes me smile. We settle around the kitchen table—the same one where Dad told me music wouldn’t pay the bills—while Jinnie charms him with stories of life on tour.

My brothers barge into the house. We exchange exuberant hugs. They’ve come out to a few shows, but no one could get Dad to come.

Patty walks in next. “There’s my boy,” she whispers as she hugs me tight.

“Hi, Patty.”

“You boys sit down,” Patty says. “I promised Jack I’d make him a good meal.”

Michael and Caleb are peppering Jinnie with questions about Europe and what it’s like to travel all the time.

“Jack, can we... talk? Alone?” Dad gets to his feet and gestures for me to follow him into the living room.

I reach for Jinnie’s hand. “Anything you say to me you can say in front of her.”

Dad studies our linked fingers, then nods and sits back down. Michael and Caleb pull up chairs and sit down without an invitation.

“I owe you an apology,” Dad says. “For... everything.” His calloused hands are pressed against the table. “After your mom died, I—” His voice cracks. “I didn’t know how to be what you needed. And when you didn’t want the farm...”

I see it then—not the stubborn farmer who kicked me out, but a grieving man drowning in his own loss.