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“I’m sorry, Bailey. Many find healing in music.”
Waving one hand in dismissal, she turns away. “I know. Maybe someday. Maybe I’m not ready yet.”
Her pain is almost tangible. My arms ache with the need to comfort her. Fingers twitching against an imaginary keyboard, my brain fills with a new melody. Bitter and discordant but one I know will flow into soothing chords and rhythms. A song to heal my muse.
Mentally returning to the kitchen, I realize she’s still speaking and I concentrate on her voice. There’s a tremor underlying her overly bright words. I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about, I only know she’s feeling pain. Before I think better of it, I move around the counter and gather her in my arms. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, beautiful.”
Her hands lift to my chest and I hold my breath, waiting for her to push me away. I won’t like it, but I’ll step back to give her the space she needs. Instead, her wide, dark eyes stare up at me for a long moment, then drop to my mouth.
No more invitation is needed. Slowly I lower my mouth to hers, a gentle pressure, the barest brushing of lips. When her stiff shoulders relax and her mouth softens, I press for a deeper kiss, dancing my tongue over her lower lip.
She mumbles something before she moves her hands until they’re clasped around my neck. Her body fits perfectly against mine and using the pressure of one hand just above her delectable ass, I ease her closer. Her quiet moan—or is it mine—is the musical soundtrack of this moment.
“Hey, anyone in here?”
The woman’s voice coming from the delivery door throws a figurative bucket of cold water over us. Bailey lurches from my arms and pats frantically at her hair and lips. “We’re… we’re in the kitchen,” she calls out then turns her back to me.
I return to my place behind the counter. Thank god I’m wearing my regular jeans. I tug on the bottom of my tee.
Carrying a couple of thermal totes, a petite woman strides into the kitchen. She grins at Bailey, somehow lifts the obviously heavy totes onto a worktable then crosses to me, holding out her hand. “You must be our special guest. I’m Georgia. But most everyone around here calls me BJ’s mom. I’ve got meals here for you.”
“Mars Kane,” I say as I shake her hand. “You really don’t have to go to all this trouble. Bailey bought groceries for me and I’m pretty self-sufficient.”
“It’s no problem. You’re here to relax. Most people don’t find it relaxing to have to plan and cook every day. No worries though, because I’m not one of those people and I always make more than enough to share. I’ll put these in the refrigerator for you. The heating instructions are on the lids. Just holler when you run low. Oh, and nice to meet you, Mars. We’re having a barbecue next weekend for all the hands. You are definitely invited. Big house up the road. I’ve got to run. I left my son watching his little sister and she’s a handful.”
Efficient and quickly, the food containers are stored away. She pulls a folded sheet of paper from her back pocket. “Here’s what’s on the menu. Let me know if something doesn’t suit. And I’ll take special requests. Within reason. See you around, Mars. Bailey, come up for coffee when you have time. We haven’t had a chat in ages.”
Then, she’s out the door. The sound of a motor comes to life then fades into the distance.
I lean over the worktable, resting on my forearms. “That woman is a force of nature.”
Bailey’s chuckle is strained. “That she is. Most of the ranch wives I’ve met are.”
“Bailey, I?—”
“No. Don’t say anything. Just don’t.” She gives me a sideways glance as she passes me. “I’ve got to get to work. Have a good day, Marcus Kane.”
The inner door swings closed behind her, leaving me feeling bereft and lonely. Unsure exactly what happened between our kiss and Bailey’s obvious escape, I finish stowing the rest of the groceries. My stomach complains that the ‘this is a serving?’ bag of cookies I’d eaten earlier wasn’t enough, I glance at the list of prepared meals and choose a potato and ham casserole.
Preferring to not use a microwave, I preheat the large, commercial oven. As the dish reheats, I organize the clipboards Bailey got and mark off my soon to be eaten meal. My gaze keeps sliding to the door, my heart hoping she’ll reappear. My head knows she won’t. Not this time. Not today.
It would be easier to simply eat here but the sense I’ve lost my momentary approval has me packing the heated casserole in one of the grocery store paper bags, adding a plate, silverware, and some fruit to complete my meal. With a final look at the door, I exit the kitchen through the storeroom, grabbing a six pack of soda on my way.
Once back in my room, I forgo the plate and sit at my keyboard with the warm pan on my thigh. I’m drowning in music. Each encounter with my beautiful Bailey adds the whirl of a new song to the cacophony in my brain. If I don’t get the notes down, organized, layered, I might lose myself.
When I’ve spoken with other songwriters about my creative processes, I’ve received both blank stares and amazement that borders on terror. I can’t explain how music fills me. How it grows and develops as a background murmur in some part of my brain until it’s ready to explode from me. Normally there’s only one song, maybe two, working themselves out in my head. I can control that.
Now there’s at least four, all because of Bailey.
Once before I faced such a daunting number at one time. Then the music was filled with sorrow, agony, hopelessness. That happened when my brother started down the drug-filled road to addiction. He’s only seen—and recorded—one of those songs. The rest are too painful. I should be proud of my accomplishment since “Snow Road” made it to the top of the charts. Both Mars’ and my first number one hit. I’m not though and still turn off the radio when it’s played. It’s too personal.
Rather than agony, today my mind is filled with sweet confusion and unknown possibilities. Single words, phrases, full lyrics begin to dance through the combined musical tracks and I groan. Once the lyrics come, there’s no way to deny my mind’s demands. Unless I want to compromise my sanity, I have to surrender.
One hand shovels food into my mouth because I’m not sure how long it will be before I surface to eat again. With the other, I gather what I need. Digital recorders, manuscript paper, a handful of sharpened pencils, the warm six-pack of soda, a few bottles of water. Setting both of my guitars close, I pull the desk chair to my keyboard, open a water and take a long pull on the bottle.
Eyes closed, I lean back, flex my fingers, and take a deep breath.
It doesn’t take long.
