Chapter 16

His friend Tommy had convinced Jacob to keep all his songs in a large safe deposit box at First National. “It’s just common sense,” he’d insisted during one of their financial planning sessions. “You’ve got years of work there. Irreplaceable material. What if there’s a fire? Water damage? Anything?” The financial adviser in him couldn’t bear the thought of such valuable intellectual property being unprotected.

Jacob had relented, transferring his notebooks—dozens and dozens of them, spanning years of careful observation and composition—to the bank’s climate-controlled vault. He’d kept only his current notebook at home, the one he was actively writing in. The arrangement had seemed excessive at first, but as his songs increasingly found their way into the world, he’d come to appreciate Tommy’s foresight.

The decision to visit Nashville had been uncharacteristically impulsive. Just before he left, Stan had invited him to come visit him in Nashville. At odd moments during the next days, Jacob found himself contemplating the invitation with growing curiosity. What would it be like to see his song evolve in a professional studio? To witness the process that transformed his private observations into public art?

One Wednesday morning, he’d approached Jim Gaines, the fab shop’s foreman, with an unprecedented request: three weeks off. His boss had looked genuinely surprised.

“Three weeks? Everything okay, Whitney?”

“Yes, sir. Just ... traveling. To Nashville.”

Gaines had studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Well, you’re entitled to it. Been here what, three years now? Never taken a vacation, never called in sick, just show up and do whatever we ask. Timing’s not bad either, that big order for Peterson isn’t due for three months.”

And just like that, the decision was made. Jacob made arrangements that would have been unthinkable months earlier, booking a flight, packing a small suitcase, asking his neighbor Mrs. Kowalski to water his few houseplants.

The day before his departure, he stopped at the bank. The safe deposit box procedure was familiar now—signing in, presenting ID, following the attendant to the secure room. Alone with the large metal box, Jacob considered his options. Which notebooks would be most useful in Nashville? He didn’t know exactly what to expect, who he might encounter, or what opportunities might arise.

After some thought, he selected three: one containing his most recently completed songs, one specializing in narratives that might suit Stan’s country sensibility, and—on impulse—one containing pieces he’d always thought might work for Jet or Lydia if their paths ever crossed again. The rest, he returned carefully to the box, locking it away before heading home to finalize his preparations.

The flight to Nashville was Jacob’s first time on a plane, an experience he found both fascinating and mildly terrifying. He spent the journey with his notebook open, jotting observations about his fellow passengers in the peculiar suspended reality of air travel, the changing landscapes visible through the small window. By the time they landed, he had the beginnings of a new song about transitions and temporary communities.

Stan was waiting at the baggage claim, Stetson in hand, grinning broadly. “You actually came,” he said as Jacob approached, the statement part greeting, part genuine surprise.

“Said I would,” Jacob replied simply, shouldering his small duffel bag.

“Still,” Stan shook his head slightly. “Wasn’t sure you’d follow through. Glad you did, though.”

The drive from the airport to Stan’s place took them through Nashville’s varied neighborhoods—from the sleek downtown with its distinctive Batman Building, past the university area, and into the residential district where Stan owned a modest craftsman bungalow on a tree-lined street.

“It’s not fancy,” Stan said as he pulled into the driveway, “but it’s paid for. First thing I bought when I started making decent money.”

The house was comfortable and lived-in, with a small front porch featuring a pair of rocking chairs, and a backyard studio conversion where Stan worked on his music. Inside, the décor reflected a working musician’s life—guitars mounted on walls, framed concert posters, shelves filled with vinyl records and music books. It felt authentic rather than staged, a home rather than a showpiece.

“Guest room’s down the hall,” Stan explained, showing Jacob to a simple bedroom with a double bed and dresser. “Bathroom’s right across. Make yourself at home.”

That first evening was quiet—just the two of them catching up over beers on the back deck, Stan filling Jacob in on Nashville’s music scene and the production progress on “Shattered.” Jacob listened more than he spoke, absorbing the information, adjusting to the unfamiliar sensation of being in someone else’s space after years of careful solitude.

“Studio session is tomorrow at ten,” Stan said as they prepared to turn in. “No pressure, but you’re welcome to come. See how your song’s taking shape.”

Jacob nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

Morning found them at Resonance Studios, a mid-tier facility housed in a converted warehouse in an industrial area, gradually being transformed by Nashville’s expanding music economy. It wasn’t one of the legendary Music Row studios, but it had solid equipment, experienced engineers and a reputation for quality work without major-label prices.

“Fair warning,” Stan said as they parked. “The team’s excited to meet you. Word got out that the mysterious songwriter was coming to town.”

Jacob tensed slightly. “I’m not here for attention.”

“I know that,” Stan assured him. “I’ve made it clear to everyone. They just want to put a face to the lyrics that have been knocking them out. No interviews, no photos, just creative collaboration if you’re up for it.”

Inside, the studio atmosphere was professional, but relaxed. The production team consisted of a producer named Marcus, a sound engineer called Darlene, and a small group of session musicians gathering in the tracking room. They greeted Stan warmly, then turned curious eyes to Jacob.

The team that was producing the song didn’t quite know what to make of this mysterious, scarred man. Jacob could read their reactions like a familiar book—the initial shock at his appearance, quickly masked by professional courtesy, but now followed by genuine curiosity about his songwriting. Marcus, a bearded man in his fifties with the calm demeanor of someone who’d seen every type of music industry drama, approached first.

“Jacob Whitney,” he said, extending a hand. “Stan’s been raving about your work. ‘Shattered’ is something special.”

Jacob accepted the handshake briefly. “Thanks. Interested to hear what you’ve done with it.”

“We’ve been working on two different approaches,” Marcus explained, leading them into the control room where Darlene was already setting up. “One closer to Stan’s usual style, one pushing boundaries a bit. Thought we’d play you both, get your thoughts.”

The next several hours were a revelation for Jacob. He’d experienced collaboration with Jet and Lydia, but this was different—a team of professionals applying their expertise to his creation, each bringing unique perspectives and skills. The session musicians discussed chord voicings and instrumental textures; Darlene manipulated EQ settings and reverb depths; Marcus guided the overall vision while Stan worked through vocal approaches.

Jacob found himself drawn into the process, initially offering tentative suggestions about the emotional intent behind specific lyrics, then gradually becoming more involved as the team genuinely valued his input. By lunch break, the initial awkwardness had dissolved into focused creative work.

“You’ve got a good ear,” Darlene told him as they reviewed a particularly nuanced section. “Most writers just hand over the song and step back. You actually understand production values.”

It was during this lunch break, as they gathered around pizza boxes in the studio lounge, that the door opened and a familiar voice called out: “Marcus! Is that mix for the Johnson track ready? I’ve got exactly thirty minutes before—”