John froze.Holy shit. He stared blankly across the living room, his guitar and all his notebooks there in his peripheral vision as the epiphany slammed right into him, rattling his very soul.
No wonder “December Dreams” had felt lacking! He'd written that song for Adam to sing, but how did it make sense for the boy to sing a song from John's perspective?
It needed to be John doing the singing. And it needed to be public. John gulped. It needed to beverypublic.
John's heart raced at the prospect, both exciting and terrifying him. But he knew there was no other way. John carefully set the guitar aside and grabbed his phone. He needed to find a place. Somewhere he could perform the song in front of an audience.
Before he got far with his search, he heard the sound of tires crunching along his driveway, too close to be his tenants heading up the other fork to the main house.
John frowned, setting his phone aside as he got up to investigate. Nobody ever came up his driveway. It was too tucked away for it to be a simple case of someone getting lost off the main road.
He went to the front door and peeked out, his eyebrows going up at the sight of a vineyard truck pulling up next to the garage, followed by a white sedan. The truck shut off, and Everett got out.
John yanked open the front door.
“Hey, John,” Everett called. He looked around as he strode towards the porch. “What a cozy setting you have here.”
“Thanks,” John replied automatically, then blurted out, “What are you doing here?”
“I know Adam's been driving you,” Everett replied, “but I thought I'd bring you this to use just in case.” He pressed the truck keys into John's hand. “I considered simply giving you the truck–”
“No,” John insisted.
Everett chuckled and held up his hands. “As an employment perk,” he clarified. “But I get it. Far be it from me to step on anyone's pride. But you're welcome to use this until you get a chance to replace your own. I'm sorry you lost it in the fire.”
John shrugged. The loss of his truck didn't sting like the loss of the grapes. Not even close. “I'm sorry you lost the vines. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner that those vines were going to have to come out, anyway. I mean, it's moot now. They're gone.”
And had that ever hurt! John had made himself ride out with Ward to survey the cleanup efforts of the riesling fields. The entire crop had been destroyed. The fire crew had used the wide dirt roads between vineyard sections as a firebreak to stop the spreading flames, but within that containment, they'd allowed the fire to burn itself out. Which meant all the riesling vines had been consumed.
John had almost gotten choked up at the sight of the charred earth. Almost. But then he'd felt a sense of resignation—almost peace—wash over him as he watched the vineyard workers rip out the remains, leaving nothing but churned-up soil behind. It would be a clean slate. A fresh start. He could let the land rest and then start growing again.
“But still,” John went on. “I should have said something. I just didn't want to disappoint you.”
Everett leveled a look at him. “John, you could never disappoint me. Your dedication has always been above and beyond. I'm only sorry you put yourself in harm's way. But I do appreciate what the vineyard means to you. At least, I think I do. I can always see it in your face when you're working. That sense of pride.”
John felt a smile tug at his lips.
“What's this?” Everett suddenly asked, eyeing the huge box beside him.
“Oh.” John chuckled. “Adam bought me a wine fridge, apparently.”
“That's thoughtful. Need any help getting it inside? I'm sure Adam can't lift anything yet.”
John almost saidno, thinking he'd figure out a way to lift it on his own, but it would certainly be easier with some help.
And he was learning to loosen his hold on having to control everything, after all.
“Thanks. Yeah. I'd appreciate it.”
They bent down and heaved the box up off the porch, carrying it into the house.
“Adam's asleep,” John grunted quietly, and Everett gave him a nod, the two of them moving quietly as they brought the box closer to the kitchen and set it down against the wall. “Thanks,” John said again.
“Anytime.” Everett turned back for the front door, then paused, eyeing the living room. John's guitar and notebooks were still out, waiting for him to come back. “Ah. So you do play.”
John felt his cheeks warm, but he nodded. “Ever since I was a kid. It was always my one passion in life, before I discovered wine.”
“Are you composing?” Everett asked, pointing at the notebooks.
