Page 72 of In This Together

Well, almost fresh, she thought as she made to step out of the van.

‘Watch out for the?—’

But whoever shouted was too late. Rosalie screamed when her foot squelched into a freshly laid pile of horse poop.

‘It’s still warm. It’s on my skin!’ she yelled. ‘I’m going to vomit. Someone help me!’

But the only help she got was an old man coming running from the porch, a driver holding out a hand and three musicians doubled over with laughter behind her.

‘I am not a bad person!’ she snapped at them whilst holding her nose with one hand to cover the stench and reaching out to the driver of the van with her other, letting him lead her to cleaner ground.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered, darlin’,’ the older man said, before throwing a bucket of cold water over Rosalie’s soiled foot.

‘Is it any wonder I don’t come to the south?’ she cried, mostly for her own ears, as the older man, with a slightly smaller frame but strikingly similar features to Seth, was stepping out of an embrace with his son and greeting Billy and Frankie.

‘Good thing I brought ten pairs of shoes. I’m going to need them,’ she muttered.

‘And this must be the boss,’ Seth’s dad said, holding out a hand to Rosalie.

‘Ah, no,’ Seth said. ‘Sofia couldn’t make it. This is Rosalie.’

‘She’s a groupie,’ Frankie said, draping an arm around Rosalie’s shoulder, laughing as he did so.

‘I amnota groupie. I’m actually helping out whilst I’m training to take over my own recording label. It’s nice to meet you, Mr?—’

‘Tim. Just Tim.’

She nodded. ‘Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Tim.’

Tim looked from Rosalie to his son, whose hand was in his hair, his arm shielding his face and his reaction to the unspoken conversation the two men seemed to be having.

They watched the minivan drive away and eventually, Tim said, ‘How’s about we get this lot inside and I’ll give y’all the southern welcome?’

‘Grilled croc?’ Frankie asked.

Tim laughed. ‘Let’s start with wings, Tim’s famous hot sauce and a fine Tennessee whisky. It’ll put hairs on your chest.’

He patted Seth’s shoulder affectionately and the group lugged their gear indoors. Rosalie took off her soggy sandals at the door and put on the pair of spa slippers she’d brought with her, in case hotels in the south didn’t provide them.

The house was big and bright, which surprised Rosalie. Where she would have expected old, dark furniture, maybe even a musty smell of a home lived in by only a man, she found high ceilings, beams in place of walls, slate tiled floors, a large modern log fire, cosy yet bright and clean cream sofas, a brand-spanking-new farmhouse-style kitchen. It was like a home from a magazine and one Rosalie would have been proud to have decorated.

One corner of the living space had floor-to-ceiling shelving, packed full of vinyl records, and in front of them was an upright piano and two six-string guitars set in stands.

As she looked around the space, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, tears came to her eyes. Perhaps it was the beauty of the home. That it felt warm and welcoming. She had never lived in a place that felt this way and, oddly, she felt soothed by it. As if the home were wrapping its arms around her and saying,Within these four walls, you’ll never walk alone.Or perhaps that was the words of Elvis singing in the background.

Rosalie cleared her throat and fiddled with the rose-gold chain around her neck until she had composed herself. ‘You have a lovely home, Tim,’ she said.

‘Not much to do with me, darlin’, but thank you. Now, there’re two bedrooms down here going spare and two upstairs.’

Frankie and Billy volunteered for the downstairs rooms and made their way through the kitchen with their gear. Tim took Rosalie’s luggage from her, ignoring her protests, and led Seth and her upstairs.

She held on to the stair rail to steady herself as she walked through Seth’s jet wash – that scent that had thrown her in the van. For some reason, Seth seemed to abhor Rosalie and, frankly, she wasn’t fond of his crabby attitude. Nevertheless, as she walked behind him, his triceps were taut, and his muscles contracted as he lugged his guitar in its case in one hand and his holdall in the other. He had discarded his lumberjack shirt now and wore only his white T-shirt and stonewash denim pants. He had kicked off his boots and socks on coming into the house and now he walked barefoot up the stairs. She loved how he slipped into the home as if he’d never been away, how his southern drawl had ramped up a notch in his dad’s presence and, most of all, how thatfineass of his flexed as they mounted the stairs. She gripped the stair rail just a little bit harder. Window shopping never hurt anyone’s credit card.

Tim nudged open the door to the first bedroom they came to at the top of the staircase and Rosalie followed him inside. The smell of outdoors blew in from the open window that looked out across the paddock. A large oak bedframe commandeered most of the space in the room and was covered by white cotton sheets.

‘There’s a wardrobe there and a chest of drawers,’ Tim said. ‘The sheets are fresh on; I pressed them myself.’

Rosalie turned from the view across the thriving green fields and smiled. ‘By all accounts you make a mean grill. If that vinyl collection downstairs is anything to go by, you have great taste in music.Andyou’re domesticated? Tim, where do I find one of you and how on earth are you single?’

---