Meant to Be (Whisper Creek #5)(10)

Which was weird. It was all … weird.

Music filtered through his windows again, and her eyes widened as she recognized the song that was playing. Tears pricked behind her eyelids as she listened to the opening notes and pictured her daddy singing them on a stage in Nashville.

It was one of his early ones-written back in the days when they'd ride his big bus for hours, tour stop to tour stop, with nothing but grass and interstate outside the windows. Daddy'd get out his guitar and pat the padded bench seat next to him. "C'mere, Pipsqueak. Help me write a song."

And they would. He'd stick a pencil behind his ear and he'd start strumming chords, and Shelby would close her eyes, looking for the melody. First she'd hum, and then the words would come, floating through the air, waiting to be caught. Like dandelion fuzz, she'd explain to him. Like God was gifting her the words … and smiling when she put them into a song.

He'd play, she'd sing, he'd harmonize, and for hours, they'd ride that bus, making the miles disappear as they created magic. And at the next stop, he'd play his sets, and close to the end of the concert, he'd always pull her onstage, call her his little nightingale, and they'd sing their latest invention together.



       
         
       
        

She'd loved the country circuit, loved the other artists who traveled with her father, loved the crews who set up and took down equipment and staging until the early-morning hours. But when an agent had spotted her, signed her, and set her up on her own tour the moment she'd turned sixteen, she'd kissed it all goodbye.

She just hadn't known that was what she'd been doing.

Neither had Daddy.

A sudden scent hit her nose, and she inhaled deeply. The honeymooners were apparently eating late tonight, and it smelled like dinner was juicy hamburgers, fresh from a grill she couldn't see. Her stomach growled, as if it, too, had caught the scent and realized it had been hours-or maybe days-since she'd had a decent meal.

She stood up and headed back into her cottage. The refrigerator and cupboards were both full; surely she could find something to make herself, even though her food prep skills were absolutely nil.

She'd been on the road for twelve years, with craft services or room service at her beck and call. She could have had anything her heart desired, but she'd always just chosen from what was already prepared or on the short menu.

Daddy'd always told her not to make trouble for anybody-"Nobody in the business likes a diva, Pip"-so although she might have given her left pinky finger for a grilled hamburger over the years, it had never been on the list of acceptable foods Nicola held her to. And no matter how you spiced it, tofu never tasted like cow.

She peered at the refrigerator shelves, lifting up celery, carrots, broccoli, and something with an odd shape she didn't recognize. There was soy milk, almond milk, and some sort of designer milk Nicola had apparently put on a list. Orange juice and cranberry juice. Apples and oranges and grapes. And in the drawers, she found chicken, some other sort of meat she'd never seen, and of course, tofu.

She shut the doors. It was perfectly good food, but she didn't want any of it. She craved pizza, chips, or maybe-gasp-a beer. She wanted nachos, or a hot dog, maybe even one with sauerkraut and mustard dribbling out its edges.

She wanted one of those damn burgers taunting her from next door.

With a sigh, she opened the cupboard and found a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Thank God. Something she could make.

But when she opened the jar and peeled off the seal inside, she held her stomach as the smell of fresh peanuts assaulted her. Daddy'd probably made her eight thousand peanut butter sandwiches on that tour bus over the years. And as she stared at the bread and the knife, she could see his hands deftly spreading and slicing while he whistled.

Then they'd sit at the window-seat table and watch the land go by while they ate, guessing at the lives of the people along the way. Daddy'd always let her pick a house as they went by, and he'd weave a tale of the families who'd maybe passed through it-or who'd lived there for generations-and she'd lean on his chest and listen while the vibrations from his voice lulled her to sleep. 

With a catchy little breath, she wrapped up the bread and screwed the cap back on the peanut butter, no longer hungry … no longer sure she could get food past the lump in her throat.

Daddy had been more than just a singer. He'd been a storyteller.

But now his story was over, and he'd left her alone to figure out hers.

-

Cooper flipped his burger, reveling in the sizzle as his stomach growled. With VIP Shelby now on-site, they'd had a scramble of an afternoon getting the schedule rejiggered and her cabin ready, and he hadn't had time to stop for dinner. He'd gone over a few minutes ago with the intention of introducing himself, but when he'd seen her practically curl up inside herself while her eyes looked for weapons, he'd decided instead to play it cool and casual.