Page 31 of The Heart That Breaks
“That’s his equivalent of a handshake,” Holden says, smiling. “Say hello to Hank Junior.”
“Hey,” I say, reaching down to rub the dog under the chin. He’s wearing a really cool brown leather collar embossed with gold guitars. His ID tag is a musical note.
Hank Junior follows us down the hall and out the back of the house. “My wife and daughter are out this morning, so it’s just us. We’ll be working in the studio out here.”
We walk around a marble tile pool also in the shape of a guitar to what looks like a small version of the main house. Holden opens the door. Hank Junior leads the way in, and we step into a musician’s paradise.
Soundproofed walls. Several enormous speakers. Oversize red chairs surrounding a round table in the middle of the room.
“I was hoping Thomas could join us today, but he and Lila are out of town for a few days.”
“Tell him I said hello,” Dad says. “Haven’t seen them in a while. They doing good?”
“I will and they are,” Holden says.
“Y’all put your stuff down. We can work at the table here.”
Dad sets his guitar case on the floor, leans over to open it up and pull out his prized Grammar guitar. He only uses it for writing and has designated it his good luck piece.
I set mine down next to his and wait for Dad to take a seat before sitting beside him.
“Can I get y’all some coffee?” Holden asks.
“I’d love some,” Dad says.
“I’m good,” I say.
Holden disappears through a door at one end of the room, Hank Junior following along behind him, tail wagging. A minute or so passes while Dad looks at me and smiles in a way that tells me he knows I’m nervous. Which I am.
Holden is back with the coffee, passing a mug to Dad. “Thanks,” Dad says.
“All right,” Holden says. “Let’s get started.”
Dad pulls his notebook from the guitar case. “Got anything you want to start with, Holden?”
“Afraid I’m running on empty,” he says. “You got anything?”
Dad picks out a few notes. “Just a lick I’ve been playing around with.”
“Let’s hear it,” Holden says, taking a chair across the table from us.
Dad plays the lick he’d played for me a couple nights ago. I see in Holden’s face that he instantly connects with it.
“Play it again,” he says.
Dad repeats the chords, and Holden falls in behind him. The tune is upbeat, the part of a song likely to become contagious, make people want to go out and have some fun.
“That’s good,” Holden says, really good. “You thinking that’s the beginning of the chorus?”
“That’s what it felt like to me.”
Holden nods, plays it again and then adds something new. Dad picks that out. They play through it again together, and then Dad fleshes it out a little more. They go on like this for a good while. I sit watching, listening, until my fingers itch so much that I have to pick up my guitar and follow along, playing what they’ve already created.
This continues for a couple hours until they’ve carved out a full chorus and verse. The tune is completely catchy, and all three of us are banging it out like it’s Saturday night at the Bluebird.
We’re starting the top of the chorus again when I hear myself singing, “Too late I love you.”
Holden looks up with a grin. “Hit that again.”
