Chapter 10

The next morning, Jacob woke before his alarm. He’d slept poorly, his mind cycling through possibilities, weighing opportunities against the comfortable routine of his established life. Lydia Summers’ business card sat on his nightstand where he’d placed it before attempting sleep. In the gray dawn light, it looked less intimidating—just a rectangle of heavy card stock with embossed lettering.

He went through his morning routine with mechanical precision, trying to create a space in his mind for the decision that loomed. As he sipped his coffee, staring out the window at the awakening city, he reached for his phone.

Jacob called her just after seven, early enough that he wondered if he might get her voicemail. Instead, she answered on the second ring, her voice alert.

“Lydia Summers.”

“It’s Jacob. Jacob Whitney. From last night.”

“Jacob.” The warmth in her voice was immediate. “I’m glad you called.”

“I was on my way to work,” he explained, glancing at the clock, “but I was hoping we could meet after. To talk.”

“Absolutely,” Lydia replied. “Name the time and place.”

Jacob hesitated for only a moment. “There’s a Starbucks on Cedar Street. I go there sometimes. Would six work?”

“Cedar Street Starbucks at six,” she confirmed. “I’ll be there.”

As Jacob prepared to end the call, he found himself adding, “I have a lot of songs, but I don’t know you well enough to winnow through them to find five or six that would fit you. I’d like to get the sense of who you want to be. Musically, I mean.”

The silence on the other end stretched long enough that Jacob wondered if the call had dropped. Then Lydia spoke, her voice thoughtful.

“That’s ... no one has ever asked me that question before. Who I want to be.” She paused again. “Thank you for asking it. I’ll see you at six, Jacob.”

The workday passed in the usual blur of the hammering of fitters and the actinic arc of welders, Jacob’s hands performing their tasks with practiced precision while his mind wandered to the evening ahead. He left the fabrication shop at five thirty, giving himself time to shower and change at home before the meeting.

At five fifty-five, Jacob pushed open the door to the Cedar Street Starbucks, a modern space with exposed brick walls and large windows overlooking the street. It was busy but not crowded, the after-work rush beginning to taper off. He liked this location for its back corner, a semi-secluded area with comfortable chairs and a table large enough to spread out notebooks.

He ordered a tall drip and claimed the corner space, arranging himself so he could see the door without being immediately visible to everyone who entered. Old habits die hard.

At precisely six, Lydia Summers walked in. She had made an effort to blend in—hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, minimal makeup, jeans and a gray sweater that wouldn’t draw attention. Still, she carried herself with the unmistakable confidence of someone accustomed to commanding spaces much larger than a coffee shop. Heads turned despite her attempts at anonymity.

She spotted Jacob in the corner and nodded, first stopping at the counter to order before making her way to him. Jacob rose slightly as she approached, an ingrained courtesy that felt awkward in execution.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said as she settled into the chair across from him.

“Thank you for calling,” Lydia replied, setting down her elaborate iced concoction. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Jacob nodded, uncertain how to navigate the pleasantries expected in such situations. He opted for directness. “You want to record my songs.”

“I want to explore the possibility,” Lydia clarified. “But more than that, I want to understand your approach. Last night at The Blue Note—those songs weren’t just well-crafted. They were honest in a way most music isn’t anymore.” She leaned forward slightly. “So before we discuss any specific songs, I’m curious about your process.”

Jacob took a sip of his coffee, using the moment to organize his thoughts. “I don’t really have a process. Not a formal one. I just ... notice things. People. Stories that need telling.”

“Like the widow in ‘Lonely Sundays,’” Lydia suggested.

“Yeah. I read that obituary and couldn’t stop thinking about her. About what Sunday mornings would be like, how rituals change when someone’s gone.” He looked down at his hands, one thumb absently tracing a scar on the opposite palm. “I don’t write about myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Lydia smiled slightly. “That’s exactly why your songs feel universal. You’re not centering yourself in them.”

The barista called Lydia’s name, indicating her order was ready. She excused herself briefly to retrieve it, giving Jacob a moment to collect his thoughts. When she returned, he redirected the conversation.

“You said you’re leaving Arclight. Going solo. Why?”

If Lydia was surprised by the direct question, she didn’t show it. “Creative differences, partly. After three albums and five years of touring, we’re repeating ourselves. But it’s more than that.” She stirred her drink thoughtfully. “I don’t recognize myself in our music anymore. Maybe I never did.”

“So, who do you want to be?” Jacob asked, echoing his question from the phone call. “Musically.”

Lydia set her drink aside, giving the question her full attention. “I want to be authentic. That sounds like industry jargon, I know, but I mean it genuinely. I’m thirty-two years old. I’ve experienced loss, love, disillusionment, hope. I want to make music that reflects a real life, not some perpetual adolescent fantasy.”

“That’s not very specific,” Jacob observed.

“It isn’t, is it?” She laughed softly. “Okay, more specifically—I grew up on Joni Mitchell, Tracy Chapman, Patti Smith. Women who had something to say and their own way of saying it. I admire songwriters who tell stories, who create characters you care about in the space of three minutes.”