Stu woke up with his phone beeping loudly and stretched across the hotel mattress to feel the empty space beside him. Impeded by restless sleep, he slogged through his morning routine and snagged a caffè americano with a bagel and cream cheese from the breakfast shop downstairs.

Outside the five-star accommodations a block from Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium, he greeted the white-gloved chauffeur standing near a stretched black Cadillac limousine polished to a mirror shine. A swift ride south on I-40 brought him to Highway 70, bearing southwest away from the city toward the lush countryside dotted with horse farms and restored plantation homes. Royce sold him on the biography pitch. After a casual conversation with Simon Hollis, the country music superstar sold him on his exoneration and the ongoing effort to reclaim his former self. Clearly, both men were motivated to write the book—one driven by the prospect of financial gain more than altruistic aspirations, the other propelled by his desire to clear his name.

Stu negotiated a one-week trial period to settle in and decide if the book would happen or not. If everything clicked, a first draft was due in two months. If the live-in arrangement didn’t take, he’d collect a modest fee for services rendered plus expenses and pass the baton to another author. But Royce didn’t want another author. He wanted Stu Harvey. And for Stu Harvey, the question remained: what am I really doing here?

He gazed through a tinted window when the limousine passed a tall iron gate and proceeded beyond the five-acre pond adjacent to the Nashville property lined with overgrown magnolias, pines, and cedars near a patch of black oak trees dripping with gray moss. Closer to the main living quarters, an English box garden in desperate need of pruning occupied the east side of the antebellum mansion. Despite its age, the century-old home looked grand with steps fashioned from hand-carved stone and Greek-style pillars supporting the gabled roof crowned with a center cupola and twin chimneys on opposite ends.

The limo turned onto the looping driveway, where the chauffer parked parallel to the central entryway and opened the door for Stu.

Stu proffered a modest gratuity and insisted he carry his bag toward the open double doors, where he wiped his feet on a welcome mat engraved with Simon’s initials. “Hr. Hollis?” he called out as he looked back to see the limousine drive away.

When no one replied, he set his bag on the floor and ventured outside to survey his temporary digs. Curious about the open bay in the four-car garage, he spied what appeared to be a vintage muscle car draped with a blue tarp. He guessed a Chevy Nova, Dodge Challenger, or Ford Mustang based on the boxy profile and polished wheels. “Hello?” he called out as he approached the garage. A steady breeze funneled westward through the trees and across scattered mounds of dead leaves that morphed into random shapes from the force of Mother Nature.

He looked inside the garage and lifted the cover from a metallic black 1968 Mustang Fastback with a two-tone louvered hood and original factory wheels.

“How did you get in here?” Simon growled from a side door entrance obscured behind a checkered steel tool cabinet mounted to the wall.

Stu moved away from the car. “The garage was open.”

“I thought you were a cop,” Simon replied. A leather billfold chain extended from his back pocket to a belt loop on his jeans. He wore mini silver hoops in each ear with a leather necklace supporting a pendant concealed under his crew neck shirt. He extended his right hand with tattooed lettering on his knuckles and a ring on each finger. “I guess I’m still a bit jumpy from my stay of execution. I’m home, but it hasn’t sunk in yet.”

Stu shook hands. “I dropped my bag inside the house. When no one answered, I—”

“You got the wanderlust. I get it.” Simon lifted the cover off the front of his project car, his soft brown eyes dancing in delight at the coveted classic in his oversized garage. “She’s a 1968 Fastback. All original equipment.”

“Did you rebuild it yourself?”

“Mostly. This car was my therapy when I was home from tour. I bought the chassis and what was left of the rusted body at auction. Had to source the hood, fenders, doors, and some of the interior from junkyards across the country. I installed a Windsor V-8 stroker with fuel injection and braided fuel lines. Ceramic coated headers, stainless steel side exhaust, and a Tremec five-speed manual.”

“She’s beautiful.” Stu rubbed his arms from the cold wind piercing his lightweight jacket. “Royce mentioned you had some contractors working on the property? I didn’t see them when I arrived.”

Simon covered the car and escorted Stu toward the house. “I had a broken window replaced. They finished a couple hours ago and left.”

“I’m not much of a handyman myself,” Stu confided, hoping to explore some common ground with the man he hardly knew beyond the confines of the music recording studio in Royce’s Nashville office building. “The most important tool I need is the one I forget to bring.”

“Manual labor clears the mind. Helps you think.”

“My wife complains I never have time to do it right, but I always have time to do it over.”

“Then I hope you’re a better author than a handyman.”

“I can hold my own.”

“What do you think about living with a convicted killer?”

Stu climbed the stone steps at the front of the house and chose his words carefully. “Your DNA proved otherwise. I’m not here to judge you, Mr. Hollis. I’m here to tell your story.”

“Call me Simon or call me Hollis. But for the love of God, don’t call me mister anything. It reminds me of my father.”

“Are you close?”

“Not anymore. He died while I was in prison.”

Stu carried his suitcase across the threshold of the nineteenth century manor and followed Simon’s lead. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be,” Simon answered as he climbed the curved staircase toward the second floor and looked down at the beaded crystal chandelier. “I’m going to put you in the spare bedroom on the east side. You’ll get more sun in the morning. I never had enough of that in prison.”

Stu followed along the hand-lathed banister overlooking the grand foyer below with a Steinway piano in the elegantly furnished gentlemen’s parlor centered around a carved fireplace with an onyx surround and gilt frame mirrors on one wall. He noted framed black and white photos, presumably family members from a previous generation. A candid wedding photo depicted a much younger Simon Hollis between his bride and a golden retriever about to jump in the back of a Town Car limousine with a Just Married decal in the rear window. “How long have you lived in this house?”

“Since I got out of prison?” Simon quipped. “Not very long.”

Stu entered the spacious guest bedroom with a window overlooking the English garden. Closer to the house, a rusty ax blade protruded from a tree stump with the hickory handle extended at an upward angle. “I meant how long has this property been in your family?”

“Since my great grandfather bought it after the Civil War. My father had plans to raise a family here, but I was an only child.”

“Were your parents involved in music?”

“My father played guitar. My mother was an opera singer.”

“Then music is in your soul.”

“You could say that.”

“Do you have children?”

“None that I’m aware of. You?”

Stu set his luggage down and looked out the window overlooking the garden. “You have a beautiful piece of land.”

“The garden became my ex-wife’s sanctuary. A place to block out the rest of the world, and me, I suppose.”

“How long were you married?”

“Long enough,” Simon replied curtly. “What kind of books do you write?”

Stu turned away from the window and carried his luggage to an antique chest of drawers caked with dust. “The kind people like to read.”

Simon analyzed Stu’s expression to discern if the man and the author were one in the same. “So how does this work exactly? In terms of writing my book?”

“You talk. I listen and write.”

“What if I don’t like what you write?”

“This is your book Mr. Hollis, Simon… Your life. Your story. I’m merely the transcriptionist. When the first draft is finished, you’ll be the next to read it.”

Simon nodded. “If you say so. Let’s go downstairs. There’s something I should play for you.”

Stu followed Simon down the spiral staircase toward the back of the home. “How many rooms do you have in this house?”

“Five upstairs and two on the first floor. I also keep a recreation room in the basement.” Simon gripped his lower back and squeezed the top of the banister with his free hand, grinding his rings into the mahogany railing.

“You okay?” Stu asked, side-stepping his host.

“I have a bullet fragment lodged in my back. Sometimes I forget about it. Sometimes it reminds me it’s still there. A gift from an overzealous cop who claimed I was reaching for a gun.”

“Were you?”

“I play with notes, not guns.” Simon straightened his back and took a hesitant step before the pain subsided. He led Stu to the grand piano in the adjoining room and centered himself on the bench seat, his wallet chain dangling from his back pocket. He lifted the keyboard guard and played pentatonic scales before he started on the song he wrote. “Tell me what you think of this.”

 

“You were the one who wanted space to breathe in

Without a heart to love or a tender hand to hold

Beyond the light, we hope to find forgiveness

But for you it’s always been about control

 

“This ain’t our song

The note’s all wrong

When I wake up, I find you gone

No hesitation, life goes on

Despite our love, we both belong to someone else

A truth we like to hide within ourselves

 

“Now the more he tries to give, the more he takes

I suppose we learn to live with our mistakes

When the bad outweighs the good in the life you lead

Caught up in the land of make-believe

Lost in your desire

Consumed by what you want, not what you need…

 

“This ain’t our song

The note’s all wrong

When I wake up, I find you gone

No hesitation, life goes on

Despite our love, we both belong to someone else

A truth we learn to hide within ourselves

“How do we find the strength to walk away?

When the more we speak, the less we say

From a place we can’t deny what we both see

Defined by who we are and not the love that’s meant to be…

 

“This ain’t our song

The note’s all wrong

When I wake up, I find you gone

No hesitation, life goes on

In our hearts we both belong to someone else

A truth we learn to hide within ourselves”

 

Stu listened to the piano melody and heard the last note sustain. “You miss your wife.”

Simon reached into the piano bench storage compartment for the marijuana cigarette stashed behind a book of sheet music. “I miss the wife I used to recognize. The one I dated before we married.” He took a disposable lighter from his pocket and lit the hand-rolled joint. He took a long drag and offered Stu a hit. “For medicinal purposes.”

“I don’t use drugs.”

“You would if you were shot in the back.” Simon closed the keyboard cover. “I’m starving,” he mumbled through the blunt hanging between his lips. “There’s food in the fridge. I don’t eat meat, but I had some delivered for you.” He took another hit and escorted Stu through the house, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. “I’m sorry about the baby.”

Stu scratched his beard. “How did you know?”

“Royce mentioned it.”

“What else did Royce tell you about me?”

“He said you and I are more alike than we realize.”