Chapter 18

In the end, Jacob moved to Nashville permanently. The decision came gradually, almost imperceptibly, as he spent more time at the farmhouse than his city apartment. He quit his welding job. What began as week-long visits extended to month-long stays until eventually he realized he hadn’t been “home” in over three months.

Elena at The Blue Note hosted a quiet farewell performance, the regulars filling the venue to capacity, their applause carrying a note of genuine loss when Jacob played his final song.

“You’ll visit, right?” she asked quietly as he packed up his guitar that night.

“When I can,” he’d promised, surprised by his own reluctance to leave the place that had first pushed him beyond his comfort zone.

His Nashville house gradually evolved into a true home. Jacob added personal touches gradually: bookshelves built into the living room wall, a workshop behind the barn where he could maintain his welding skills, a hammock strung between two old oaks where he often composed on summer evenings.

He came to know his neighbors slowly, in his own careful way. To his east lived a couple who were big in the arts community—Sara and Jane Parker, owners of two prestigious galleries in downtown Nashville. To his west was a large animal veterinarian named David Wilson with what he called a “passel of youngins”—five children ranging from four to fourteen years old, being raised by David and his wife Carol after the death of Carol’s sister had added two nieces to their already bustling household.

The Wilson children were all curious about their new neighbor, particularly after discovering he played guitar. They would show up at random times, appearing at the edge of his property like woodland creatures—cautious but hopeful, drawn by the music that often drifted from his porch or barn studio.

Jacob, who had never spent significant time around children, found their direct curiosity refreshing. Unlike adults who pretended not to notice his scars or stared when they thought he wasn’t looking, the Wilson children had simply asked.

“What happened to your face, Mister Jake?” seven-year-old Michael had inquired during their second encounter.

“Dog attack when I was a kid,” Jacob had answered plainly.

Michael had nodded solemnly. “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

“Can you still smile?”

In response, Jacob had offered a small but genuine smile, surprising himself with how easily it came.

“Cool,” Michael had declared, then immediately changed subjects. “Do you know any songs about dinosaurs?”

After that exchange, the Wilson children became regular visitors, particularly on weekend afternoons. Jacob established loose boundaries—they knew to check if he was working in the studio before interrupting, understood that sometimes he needed solitude, recognized when he was open to company. In return, he found himself looking forward to their visits, to their unfiltered enthusiasm for music, to the simple joy they took in sing-a-longs on the porch steps.

Carol Wilson had apologized initially for their intrusions. “They’re drawn to you like moths to a flame, Mr. Whitney. I can keep them home if they’re bothering you.”

“They’re fine,” Jacob had assured her, surprising himself with how much he meant it. “They’re ... refreshingly honest.”

It was a warm Sunday afternoon in late spring when Sara and Jane Parker finally made their approach. Jacob was on his porch, guitar across his lap, working through what he called “The Lover’s Lament”, a song about missing someone that had come to him after witnessing a young couple part at the airport, him going off to military deployment, her trying to maintain composure as they said goodbye.

The song was melancholy but hopeful, exploring the ache of separation when reuniting remains uncertain. As he refined the bridge, searching for the right chord progression to support the emotional shift, he noticed two women walking up his driveway, one carrying what appeared to be a cake.

Jacob set his guitar aside as they approached the porch steps. One was tall and lean with short salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in crisp linen pants and a tailored shirt; the other shorter, rounder, with a mass of red curls and a flowing floral dress.

“Hope we’re not interrupting,” the taller one called out. “We’re your neighbors to the east. Thought it was past time we properly introduced ourselves.”

Jacob stood, nodding a greeting. “Jacob Whitney.”

“Sara Parker,” the taller woman said, extending her hand. “And this is my wife, Jane. We’re calling ourselves nosy Parkers today, showing up uninvited, but we brought along a bribe.” She nodded toward the cake in Jane’s hands.

“Carrot cake,” Jane explained with a warm smile. “Homemade. Sara’s mother’s recipe, but my execution because she’s hopeless in the kitchen.”

“Completely hopeless,” Sara agreed cheerfully. “But I make up for it by mixing excellent cocktails.”

There was something disarming about their easy banter, their straightforward approach. Jacob invited them in for coffee, a gesture that would have been unthinkable months earlier.

The farmhouse kitchen had become one of Jacob’s favorite spaces—simple but functional, with large windows overlooking the backyard and the pond beyond. He prepared coffee while Jane set the cake on the counter. They both glanced around with undisguised curiosity.

“You’ve done wonders with this place,” she commented. “We watched the renovation from afar. This was the old Mercer property, right? Stood empty for years before you bought it.”

Jacob nodded, setting mugs on the small kitchen table. “Needed work. But good bones.”

“The best kind of project,” Jane agreed, accepting the seat he offered. “Something with history, with character. That’s why we bought our place too—that 1920s farmhouse had stories to tell.”

As they settled around the table with coffee and generous slices of the carrot cake (which proved excellent), the conversation flowed more easily than Jacob had expected. Sara and Jane were naturally engaging without being intrusive, sharing information about the area, offering recommendations for local services, mentioning their galleries in passing without making it the focus.

“We’ve heard you playing from across the way,” Jane mentioned. “That song just now—it was beautiful. So wistful.”

“New piece,” Jacob explained. “Still working on it.”

“You play professionally?” Sara inquired, sipping her coffee.

“I write. For other artists, mostly.”

Jane’s eyes widened slightly. “Wait—are you that Jacob Whitney? The songwriter working with Lydia Summers and Stanley Osier?”

Jacob nodded, unused to being recognized by name rather than appearance.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sara exclaimed. “The music community’s been buzzing about you for months. The mysterious songwriter who never does interviews. And here you are, right next door.”

“Small world,” Jane added with a smile. “Nashville’s like that sometimes.”

As they finished their cake, Jacob found himself oddly comfortable with these women who approached life with such straightforward enthusiasm. When Sara asked if she might use his bathroom before they headed home, he directed her down the hallway without his usual concern about people moving through his private space.