Page 66 of A Country Kind Of Love
It’s too late now.
11
ThreeWeeks Later
October looms. Summer is officially over. The humidity will soon be a distant memory as Peyton prepares for her first Tennessee winter. The brisk autumn air is a welcome addition. She strolls down Lower Broadway with her denim-on-denim ensemble. It’s the first time in months she’s worn jeans, coupled with a tank top and a denim jacket, she’s wearing just about the only suitable outfit she owns. Hence the shopping trip.
She welcomed her first pay cheque yesterday, or at least her bank balance did. The funds were swiftly swallowed up by her large overdraft fee. However, she is now the newest team member at the funkiest coffee shop in town.
“Hi, welcome to Fleetwood Macchiato. What can I get for you today?” The name is aclever pun.
When she arrived for the job interview, she saw the giant oil painting on the wall dedicated to theRumoursalbum and heard the low soothing sounds of Fleetwood Mac’s greatest hits playing in the background, and she was sold. They hold open mic nights on Thursday nights. Peyton voluntarily put her hand up to work every Thursday evening for that reason specifically.
She hears a woman across the street call out after her son, “Leo, Leo come back here.” The name sounds too familiar. It’s been three weeks since she last spoke with Cleo. She won’t return her calls. She won’t answer her text messages. She won’t respond when she tries to go through Jesse. She doesn’t care to resolve things, and Peyton can’t blame her.Not really.
Since that day at the record company, Peyton ignores Marvin’s phone calls. Jesse equally tries to defend his friend and comfort Peyton at the same time, but he can’t pick a side. That upsets her. He shouldn’t have to; she knows it’s unfair of her to expect him to, but she feels isolated. She wants to trust that everything will work out the way it’s supposed to, but if that doesn’t involve Cleo, she isn’t sure shewants it to.
Cleo’s manager, Mr. HankAss-croft, kindly sent Peyton an email stating that they would not be using the songs she wrote therefore no royalties would be awarded. Like she cares about royalties; she cares about Cleo. Use the songs or don’t use them was her response; she isn’t about to bang down doors for her cut. The email was formal, long-winded, and went into detail about mechanical royalty, performance royalty, and synch fees. Peyton didn’t know about any of those things, so now she’s better informed for the future. She chose not to reply.
She returns home from her shopping trip with three bags in tow. It’s been a successful trip by all accounts. There’s a familiar smell in the building stairwell; it overpowers the usual mustiness coupled with a fruity air freshener. She inhales a bit deeper. It smells like someone’s opened a fried chicken joint in the hallway, but that’s not the difference; underneath is a barbeque seasoning, it’s meaty and—
Is that mom’s famous Brunswick Stew?
She rushes up the final three steps. It’s coming from their apartment.
What the hell isJesse up to?
She bursts through the door only to be greeted by a familiar face.
“Dad!”
“Hi, sweetheart.” He grins.
She runs into his arms and almost flattens him in the process. “What are youdoing here?”
“You think I wasn’t going to come and see my little girl for her birthday?”
Urgh. The birthday. She’s tried to forget all about it. What is there to celebrate about being twenty-four anyway?
“You didn’t have to come all the way outhere, Dad.”
“Of course I did.”
“You look good.” She observes his freshly trimmed beard. “Have you dyed this? Where’s the grey?” The flecks of grey within his beard have been increasing over the years, but now it’s all black.
“I did. Your brother didit for me.”
“You let Dylan dye your beard?” She felt at his forehead. “Are you okay?”
“Your old man is on a journey of self-discovery.” That’s code for there’s a woman on the scene.
“Oh really?” She pats his stomach. “Is that why you’ve lost a fewpounds too?”
“Ten actually.”
“I’m impressed.” There’s a large pan cooking on the stove. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Your mom’s Brunswick;yes, it is.”
