Page 6 of She's My Kind Of Rain

As I enter the room, I look around at all the photos I have on the walls. Moments that brought me such joy. Photos of the first artist Gina helped me sign, a fair where I got to be one of the judges for their talent show, and so many other small occasions that felt like a dream come true at a job I thought I would get to have for the rest of my life.

I reach for my degrees hanging on the wall, feeling extra grateful that this moment is coming after I completed my courses in business and marketing. When I originally enrolled, Gina said if I ever decided to leave W.M.G., different labels would be more interested in hiring me if I not only had experience in A&R, but also a degree to back my ability to do the job. Now I’m just glad I took her up on the opportunity, and even more so that her husband, Bob, had agreed to fund the courses so I could take them straight away.

A single tear runs down my cheek and I wipe it away so no one sees me upset if they pass my door. I know this is already hard enough and I don’t wish to make it any harder on Gina after all she has done for me.

I pack the last thing from my desk and close the door to all the memories I’ve made and all the memories that could have been.

I find Gina is waiting in the lobby to say our final goodbyes. I fake a soft smile while I approach her and set my box on the secretary’s desk, reaching to hug her, happy that this morning I chose to come to work earlier than everyone else so that this would be my only goodbye.

And with one final squeeze, I say, “Thank you for taking a chance on me.”

Tansy Bay is going to be the death of me. I used to view this place as heaven on earth, but that idea died with my dad. We have one stop light, and it has changed to a flashing red four-way stop due to the lack of people who have decided to take up residence here. I can’t say I blame them. I’ve dreamed of leaving it all behind since I was a teenager.

Unfortunately, I made the stupid choice to not go off andmake something of myselflike many of my friends had once wegraduated. I was too worried to leave Mom. Dad had only been gone two years and she was still struggling to find her place. We both were. Then I got the job at Wellington, and I was so wrapped up in being part of the music industry, just to feel some sort of closeness to Dad, that leaving was the last thing on my mind.

Beyond the excuse of protecting my mom’s heart, I also think I’ve been protecting my own. I don’t know what a life outside Tansy Bay looks like because I’ve never considered making it a reality. I can’t sing as well as Dad did, and my writing is okay, but I’ve never been brave enough to share it with anyone besides him. I spent all of high school participating in local fair pageants, singing songs everyone’s heard, and helping our local music program with summer concert events. When I was offered a position at Wellington, I thought all of my dreams were finally going to come true and, honestly, they had. I got to be a part of the music world in some way and make money doing it.

Each street I drive past looks just the same as it always has. Lined with trees and well kept homes. Happy faces—most of which are elderly—and American flags hanging off nearly every porch. I wave to everyone who looks my way because that’s just what we do here in Tansy.

It’s not that this place sucks, it’s just that I dreamed of seeing my name in lights, or at least in a CD pamphlet crediting me to writing a song everyone loves. But here the opportunities are limited, and you’re much more likely to be the leader of a book club than you are to be famous.

My dad was the exception. He may not have been famous in the traditional sense—because he chose not to be—but when he sang, people listened.

It’s been seven years since his stroke and not a day goes by that I don’t wish for one more moment, one more conversation, or one more song.

Pulling into our driveway, my car’s engine slows to a purr and I turn off the ignition. A clunk sounds as I lean my forehead onto my steering wheel. What am I going to do? What am I going to tell mom? Tears sting in my eyes once more, and I don’t fight them off this time. They fall, unbidden, streaming down my cheeks and plopping onto my lap. Blowing out a breath, I sit up and brush the tears from my cheeks. I wonder if Mom is home and watching from the front window. She’ll probably be wondering why I’m just sitting in the driveway when I should be at work. I take in my surroundings, then exit the car. My parents have lived in the same white house my entire life, and though the town now feels small and hopeless, our house is far from it. A huge maple tree shades the entirety of the backyard, its trunk so large I can’t reach my arms around it. A little blue playhouse sits right outside our back door, hand painted flowers and memories are its only decorations now that I’m grown, and an array of flowers are planted along the path leading to the entrance.

I slam my car door harder than intended, the crunch of my shoes and the sound of birds now replacing the soft music I had playing on my way home. I make my way toward the house. The storm door creaks as I open it, adding one more obvious sound to my arrival. Every time I walk through the back entryway I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. The memories here have not always been bright and cheery, but, nonetheless, it’s home.

I take one final breath before I walk up the small set of stairs to the kitchen, because I know Mom will try to fix this even though nothing can be done. A clunking sounds as I drop my box of things on the dining table, and, like clockwork, I hear my mom shuffling toward the kitchen to investigate.

“Daisy, is that you?” She yells, as if anyone else would just walk into our house without an invitation.

“Yeah,” I say, honestly hoping the conversation ends there, though I know it won’t.

She enters the kitchen, her curly red hair in a messy bun and her arms filled with things she must have found cleaning. She does that now, finds things to keep her physically busy on the days she’s not at the shop so that she mentally doesn’t have to think about Dad. I don’t blame her, since I do my best to do the same.

“Why are you back so soon? Is everything okay?” Worry clouds her expression. I focus on the heap of things she holds bundled in her arms, breaking our eye contact to allow myself a moment to compose my thoughts. I glance up to meet her gaze once more. Her stare dips between me and the pile before she adds, “I was just going through the attic. It’s amazing what we all hold on to and don’t even realize it.” She lets out a soft breath, almost like she’s trying to make me feel better even though I haven’t had the chance to tell her something is wrong.

“Bob and Gina decided to sell Wellington to a larger record company who decided today would be their last day open.” I say, trying my best not to let my words flounder.

She looks at me with sadness in her eyes, not saying a word.

“Apparently, they were not bringing in as much money as they used to, and they wanted to ensure they could retire before they were too old to enjoy it.” I force a smile to my lips.“I’m happy for them, I just wish it didn’t affect my job.” I reiterate the information just as it was told to me, hoping that it will answer all of her questions so I won’t have to.

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” She wraps me in a loving embrace, kissing the top of my head. “I just saw in the newspaper that the school is hiring subs. Maybe they will have something available in the music department. I could ask around for you if you’d like?” Like always, she shifts the problem to finding a solution.

Frustration surges within me at the thought of Tansy and its many limitations. Not to mention, the disappointment as I come to a stark realization that: I won’t be able to get that apartmentI’d been secretly eyeing for months now. How can I afford rent when I don’t have an income? Realizing I spaced out, I muster up another smile. “Thanks, Mom. I think I’m just going to head up to my room for a bit and I’ll take a look in the classifieds for any local job openings.” I let out a soft breath, reaching for the newspaper sitting on the counter. “If you don’t need the phone, maybe I’ll look online to see if there is anything else available nearby too. Apparently bigger companies have shifted to using job search engines now.”

“That’s fine, honey. Just remember Grandma will be calling around six, and she gets worried when the line is tied up too long. Let me know if I can help in any way. I love you, Dais, you will find something you love, I promise.”

She and I both know that isn’t really a promise she can make, but she makes it anyway because she doesn’t like to see me sad. I hug her one more time and head toward my room, thankful that I held myself together this long. I hate making her sad, and even though this situation is out of my control, I wish I could take the burden of worrying about me from her.

I hastily head up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time before rounding the landing and heading straight through my bedroom door. Since losing my dad, I haven’t had the heart to make many changes to this room. The thought of modifying something he created bothers me much more than the idea that the walls have been the same since the day I was born. He was the one who put up the light pink wallpaper with daisies scattered throughout. A gentle nod to my name. A sad smile tugs on my mouth. How many times had Mom and Dad reminded me that daisies represent new beginnings?

The only true change is the desk that my mom insisted on adding without asking me when I had taken my college courses.

I walk across my brown, shaggy carpet and sit down—once angry that she had someone disrupt the walls to add a phonejack for a computer I hadn’t asked for, but now grateful she had. I let out a deep breath and open the newspaper to look through the job listings. What kind of job do I even want? My eyes scan through a plethora of restaurant positions, from cook to maintenance. I let out a groan of disappointment. Music has always been my passion and I’d never thought I would leave Wellington. Would I be happy with just any old job? I turn on the computer, plug in the phone cord, and wait for the dial-up to connect. Sliding my mouse cursor over to Internet Explorer, I click it and use a search engine to job hunt, hoping that something will pop up right away, but just like the crummy classifieds, there are no open jobs close by that sound even remotely interesting. My heart sinks. worry coiling tighter and tighter in my stomach with each pointless listing. What if I can’t find something? I type in arts and repertoire, just out of curiosity, and in big bold black lettersTelluride Recordsappears at the top of the job search list. I recognize the name immediately—it’s not only the biggest, but also the exact label that had wanted to sign my dad. I let out a sad sigh, wishing he would have gotten to have his familyandhis dream. Tears well up in my eyes and I put the computer on standby before going to help my mom with whatever cleaning she has left for the day.

---