Chapter 19

Stan had stopped by the farmhouse on a Wednesday afternoon to drop off the final mix of “Shattered” before its official release. They were sitting on the porch, the spring day warm enough to make iced tea the beverage of choice, listening to the track through Stan’s portable speaker.

“What do you think?” Stan asked as the song concluded, watching Jacob’s face for his reaction. “Any final tweaks before we lock it down?”

Jacob considered the question, mentally comparing the polished recording to the raw version they’d first worked out at Margie’s Diner months ago. “The bridge transition works better now. And the pedal steel...” he nodded slightly. “It’s good. Feels right.”

Stan grinned, relief evident in his expression. “Had a feeling you’d approve of the pedal steel. Marcus brought in Hank Wilson for that part—he’s a legend, doesn’t play on just anything these days.”

They discussed a few technical aspects of the production, Jacob’s comments precise and insightful, despite his lack of formal training. As their conversation drifted to other topics, Jacob found himself mentioning something that had been nagging at him.

“I miss playing weekly,” he admitted, his tone casual but the sentiment significant. “The Blue Note. Having that regular outlet.”

Stan looked at him with surprise. “Why didn’t you say something before? Nashville’s got more music venues per square mile than anywhere in the country. There’s got to be a dozen places that would fit what you’re looking for.”

Jacob shrugged slightly. “Didn’t know where to start. The Blue Note evolved gradually. Elena understood my ... preferences.”

“Your need to play without making it a whole thing,” Stan translated with a knowing smile. “Without publicity or fuss, just the music.” He pulled out his phone, already scrolling through contacts. “Let me make some calls. We can tour a few places, see if any feel right.”

By that afternoon, they were in Stan’s pickup truck, making their way through Nashville’s varied neighborhoods. Stan had arranged an informal tour of venues with open mic nights and regular performance slots, calling in favors from friends throughout the music community.

Their first stop was The Listening Room, an established venue known for its songwriter nights. The manager, a friend of Stan’s named Marcus, showed them around during the quiet afternoon hours before the evening crowd arrived.

“We focus on the craft here,” Marcus explained, gesturing toward the small, intimate stage. “Audiences come to truly listen, not just have music in the background while they socialize. Our regular Thursday songwriter nights feature three or four artists doing rounds—taking turns, playing their original material.”

Jacob studied the space—the careful lighting, the sound system, the audience layout designed to focus attention on the performers. It was professional, polished, clearly respected the music. But something about it felt too formal, too much like a showcase rather than the organic experience he’d had at The Blue Note.

“It’s a great room,” he acknowledged. “But maybe...”

“Not quite what you’re looking for,” Stan finished, reading his hesitation accurately. “No problem. We’ve got more places to check out.”

Their next stop was The Basement, a more casual venue with a loyal local following. The space was literally underground, with exposed brick walls and a decidedly more rugged atmosphere. The booker, a woman named Tess with multiple tattoos and an encyclopedic knowledge of Nashville’s music history, greeted them warmly.

“Stan says you’re looking for a regular spot to play,” she said to Jacob, her eyes curious but not dwelling on his scars. “We do an open mic on Tuesdays, and we sometimes have early evening slots available for singer-songwriters before the main acts. The crowd’s usually local musicians, industry people, true music lovers.”

Jacob appreciated her straightforward approach, the lack of pretense in both her manner and the venue itself. “Could I see the stage?”

As they moved through the space, Jacob mentally picturing how it would feel to perform there. Stan filled Tess in on Jacob’s songwriting credentials. Jacob noted with appreciation that Stan emphasized his work rather than his personal story, focusing on the songs he’d written for Lydia and Jet rather than on the viral video or his reclusive reputation.

“We’d be honored to have you play here,” Tess said sincerely as they concluded the tour. “And I can promise you this—our audience listens. Really listens.”

They visited three more places that afternoon—each with its own character, its own potential. The Five Spot had an eclectic, artistic vibe that appealed to Jacob’s sensibilities, but felt too crowded, too social. The Bluebird Cafe, legendary in Nashville’s songwriter community, was impressive but too established, too much of an institution. Douglas Corner had potential, with its relaxed atmosphere and respect for songwriters, but the management seemed overly excited about the commercial possibilities of hosting “Jacob Whitney, the mystery writer behind Lydia Summers’ hits.”

As they drove between locations, Jacob told Stan about Sara and Jane Parker’s visit, their discovery of his paintings, and their offer to discuss a gallery exhibition.

“They went nuts over your paintings?” Stan asked, clearly intrigued by this development. “That’s amazing, Jacob. The Parker Galleries are seriously respected. Jane’s space focuses on emerging artists, and Sara’s gallery represents some major established names.”

“You know them?” Jacob shouldn’t have been surprised—Nashville’s creative communities seemed inevitably interconnected.

“Not well, but by reputation. Carol Wilson’s sister—the one who passed away—was a sculptor. Had some shows at Sara’s gallery, from what I’ve heard.” Stan glanced over at Jacob. “Are you considering their offer?”

Jacob gazed out the window at the passing Nashville neighborhoods, considering the question. “Maybe. It’s different from the music. More personal somehow.”

“Because no one else interprets it,” Stan suggested thoughtfully. “Your songs go through other voices, other instruments, other arrangements. The paintings are just you—direct from your eye to the canvas.”

It was an insightful observation, one that captured exactly why Jacob felt more vulnerable about showing his visual art. “Yeah,” he agreed simply.

“Well, I think it’s fantastic,” Stan said with enthusiasm. “Your eye for detail, for human moments—it’s what makes your songs so compelling. I bet that translates to your painting, too.”