Chapter Twelve
Darryl’s pickup truck growled nicely as he drove it around behind the Long Branch and sat there letting it idle. He revved it a little and felt a deep sense of pleasure at the sound. He’d done that—made that engine sound that way, given it all that power. He’d installed the lift kit, added the huge tires. His truck was his pride and joy.
He wished he understood himself as well as he understood his truck. He’d thought he had a pretty good grip on things. But the things his beautiful Sophie had said on the backyard swing had his brain spinning. How could she seriously believe that everything was part of some kind of master plan? He’d lost his chance at fatherhood, forever, for crying out loud.
He shut the engine down, got out of the truck and took his leftovers with him as he headed up the outside staircase that led to the second floor. The McIntyre fellas had decided they didn’t want their overnight guests forced to walk through the saloon every time they came or went. Although, so far those “guests” were Joey and Robert themselves, and him. For the moment.
He unlocked the door and wondered if Sophie could, by any stretch of the imagination, be onto something. She sure as hell seemed happier than she’d been when he’d first met her.
Three containers full of leftovers were balanced between his left arm and his chest, and when the stack wobbled he froze halfway through the door. A bolt of terror shot through him at the thought of any of those treasures hitting the floor. Pumpkin Pie. A thick slice of ham. A vat of gravy-soaked potatoes. Precious cargo.
He adjusted his grip without casualties, sighed in relief and went inside, down the hall, and then into his small room. The guys had set him up a mini-fridge and he took his treasures to it, then fished the small baby food jar full of homemade whipped cream out of his pocket and put that inside as well.
Losing that baby and then the ability to produce any more, had led him to write Christmas Blues. The song had gone on to become the biggest success of his entire life and earned him a CMA for song of the year.
His grandfather used to say that no one ever died before their time. He used to say everyone has a purpose and once it’s fulfilled, they go back and start over. Even children, he’d said. What if that was true?
Had he been grieving something that had never been a part of the plan? Had his heart been broken by things that happened exactly the way they were supposed to happen, as Sophie’s Santa Claus had told her?
He didn’t believe it. It didn’t make sense to believe life could be that simple. But he couldn’t get it out of his head that he had to explore this notion a little bit. He let himself wonder…what if it was true?
What if it was true? What would that mean for him?
He walked into the bathroom in sort of a daze and stared at himself in the mirror. He saw himself as if he was looking at a stranger. Nice, square jaw. Strong jaw. He liked his jaw, he decided.
Then he focused on his eyes, stared hard right into them, and he realized that there was a whole person underneath the mask he’d been wearing since he’d come home from the Middle East. The mask he wore was made of grief, anger and regret because of what had been taken from him.
But what if that was meant to be, as well? And who was the real him, without all of that? Who would he be right now, if those tragedies hadn’t happened to him?
He looked across the room. His guitar case stood in the corner near the bed. He took it everywhere he went, but he hadn’t played in months. Just hadn’t felt…alive enough to play. Not in a long time now. Oh, he’d pick it up, strum a few chords, think about writing another song. But it never went anywhere. He hadn’t written anything since “Christmas Blues.” He had only just begun to feel the urge again, since coming here to Big Falls.
Since meeting Sophie.
And all of the sudden, right then, it was more than an urge. It was a need.
He walked to the guitar case and crouched, flipped the latches and opened the lid. Then he closed his hand around the neck of his gleaming Gibson and took her out. He cradled the instrument in his arms and let his fingers pluck the strings as he tuned them.
A long, long breath sighed from his lungs. It felt like he’d been holding it for years.
Oklahoma Christmas Blues Page 23
