Smoky Mountain Dreams (26 page)

The home was different from so many cabins in that the walls
weren’t hewn wood, but had been dry walled and painted. There as a wooden door
at the end of the hall that opened to another door that was locked and had a
security pad next to it. Jesse keyed in a code and then led the way upstairs.

“This is my home studio. Hence the lock.”

The room was different from the rest of the house. Almost
feminine with white walls, cream overstuffed chairs, a wide, recessed window
seat with yellow and cream pillows, and white lace curtains. Along one side was
a white table with white boxes full of small drawers and silver, gold, and
other metal tools lined neatly along the back where it touched the wall.

It was only when Christopher looked at Jesse again that he
saw how his shoulders and back had relaxed. Even his face looked less tense.

“This is my space. I know it doesn’t really fit the rest of
the house. That’s because everything else was a compromise. Marcy wanted stark
lines and I wanted comfort, and we came together in what you see everywhere
else. But this is my little beach house in the mountains. Years ago in France I
stayed in the most beautiful white house on the sea for three amazing months. I
studied with Bernard Boucher and he made jewels come alive for me.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s white and fluffy. Like a cloud. I know…ridiculous. But
it clears my mind and I can work on making something beautiful.” He crossed
over to the table, pulling open several drawers. “Want to see a drawer full of
amethysts?”

Christopher drew near and peered into the white drawer full
of purple stones, some round, some square, some heart-shaped, and others
unpolished and rugged.

“It’s a quartz,” Jesse said. “Fun fact: the Romans made
drinking vessels out of it because they believed the stone could magically
prevent intoxication.”

“Beautiful.”

“They aren’t as valuable as they once were, but Brigid loves
them, and look…” he opened another drawer and pulled out a small ring. “I made
this for her for Christmas.”

It was a small thing, barely big enough to fit over the tip
of Christopher’s index finger.

“She’ll like it,” Jesse said. “With any luck, it’s what she’s
wishing for with those cranes.”

Christopher handed the small ring back to him. Jesse’s face
was soft and his dark eyes glowed with affection for his daughter as he
examined the ring again. “She likes purple.”

“I thought she said she liked yellow?” Christopher murmured,
gazing at Jesse’s jaw and his lips, the sweetness of his love shining through.

“She was being obnoxious. I’m sorry about that. She does
that now. Thirteen is coming up soon. God, save us.”

“It’s a tough year for girls. My cousin’s daughter is almost
there now. It’s been hard for her.”

Jesse put the ring back in the drawer and turned to
Christopher. “I’m gonna kiss you now, because I’ve wanted to all night and I’m
not going wait any longer.”

Christopher twisted his fingers into Jesse’s T-shirt and
pulled him close, the firm, strong line of his chest and his thigh rubbing
against him. “Then do it. I dare you.”

“Dare me? What else do you dare me to do to you up here?”

“Daddy?” Brigid’s voice was soft and vibrated with tension.

Jesse jerked back as Christopher released his shirt. He
cleared his throat and asked, “Is the movie over, honey?”

“It’s been over. We wanted to rent
Catching
Fire
. iTunes says it’s only three-ninety-nine for twenty-four hours.”
Her question was reasonable, but her eyes were on Christopher like he was a
snake or some other kind of dangerous creature that had slipped into her house.

“Say hi to Christopher, honey.”

She didn’t. Christopher wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.

Jesse guided Brigid down the stairs and motioned for
Christopher to follow. At the bottom, Jesse typed in a code and the lock
engaged, blocking them away from the cloud of a room where moments before there’d
been such intimacy and affection flowing between them.

“What’s the movie rated?” Jesse asked.

“Come downstairs,” she said, tugging on his hand, her eyes
never leaving Christopher as she pulled. “Please, Dad? Just come down to the
basement, okay?”

Jesse looked over his shoulder at Christopher, apology
warring with frustration, but he nodded.

“I’ll wait up here,” Christopher said as they reached the
main floor.

“I’ll be right back,” Jesse said.

“Don’t worry about it. Help the girls out. It’s fine.”

Brigid didn’t look too happy about his graciousness, but she
didn’t say anything else as she pulled Jesse to the door leading down to the
basement. Christopher was curious what all was down there, but he didn’t want
to interfere, and after what Brigid had glimpsed, Jesse might need to speak with
her alone.

He was a little turned around, and wasn’t sure if the living
room was to his left or right, so he hazarded a guess and quickly discovered he
was wrong. He entered a more formal room with a sofa that looked like it had
never been used even the first time, and a beautiful antique upright piano.

More pictures sat around the room in frames, and without
Jesse there, Christopher allowed himself to linger on several of them. One was
of Jesse around the age of sixteen with dyed pink hair, black eyeliner around
his eyes, and one hip thrust out in a near parody of feminine seduction.
Another photo was of Jesse and Marcy, also in their teen years, but dressed for
the prom. Marcy wore a black dress and a black rose as a corsage, and Jesse
looked like a little goth-rocker in a tux decorated with chains and a black
rose in his lapel, accentuated with black lipstick. Christopher shook his head,
amazed that the man he’d been getting to know had once been this desperate to
prove something to someone. His father? Himself?

He crossed over to the piano eventually, turning his back on
the rest of the photos—mainly outdoor shots of a young Marcy or Jesse, or
sometimes the two of them on various mountain trails in the area—and lifted the
cover to touch his fingers to a few keys. The sound of several perfectly tuned
notes echoed in the room, and he was getting ready to lower the lid again when
Jesse’s voice came from behind him.

“You found the piano.”

“Do you play?”

“Marcy was taking lessons.”

“Oh.”

“She was terrible.”

Christopher smiled. “Oh, man. That’s rough.”

“You said you play a little, right? Have a seat. Play
something for me. Someone should play that thing. God, I hope it’s still in
tune.”

“It’s been a while. I might be rusty,” Christopher lied. He
banged around on the pianos at SMD all the time during breaks in show
rehearsals. But he truly wasn’t very good. He sat on the bench and ran his
fingers over the keys some more, doing a few scales to determine the stickiness
of the keys and finding that a few were slightly out of tune. That was okay,
though. “What do you want to hear?”

Jesse sat on the sofa and propped his feet up on the
immaculate coffee table across from it. “Something of yours.”

“Mine?”

“You’ve got songs don’t you? From when you went to Nashville?”

He did, but he hadn’t played them in years now, not since
the songs had become their own kind of humiliation. “Let me see. It’s been a
while. Here’s hoping I don’t mess up or forget my own lyrics.”

The opening chords were louder than he intended, and he
backed off to something warm and tender. He glanced over his shoulder at Jesse,
who sat on the sofa with his gaze trained warmly on Christopher, anticipation
and encouragement in his expression.

“I wrote this one when I was seventeen. It was for my Gran.
It’s called ‘Boy With a Paper Heart.’”

He played the opening chords a few times, working up his
nerve to expose himself in a way he hadn’t in some time. Finally, he opened his
mouth and the words came off his tongue like he’d sung them just yesterday and not
three years prior during his last miserable show in a no-name bar where people
played the jukebox over his singing.

The lyrics were about the meaning of love, the shapes and
sizes it can come in, and the human need for it. As he progressed through the verses,
he closed his eyes and gave up trying to hide anything from Jesse. That was
what music did for him—made him visible, made him show himself—and what had
been so heartbreaking in Nashville when no one cared to see what he revealed.

Finally coming to a close, he lifted his fingers from the
keys, the last notes reverberating into silence. He waited for Jesse to applaud
or speak, but he didn’t.
Lord, was it that bad?
When
Christopher turned to him, he was met with tender eyes and a gently open mouth.
“Well, that’s the one I wrote for Gran,” Christopher murmured helplessly,
embarrassment or worse starting to open in his chest.

“Play it again,” Jesse said, his voice hoarse. “Please. I’d
like to hear it again.”

Christopher nearly protested or suggested he do a different
song, but the expression on Jesse’s face was so earnest that he simply turned
back to the keyboard and gave him what he asked for. When that song was over,
instead of stopping altogether he played a little bit of music he’d never
written words for, and then transitioned into another song—a lullaby he’d
tweaked from one Jackie had made up for him as a little boy.

When that song was done, he took a deep breath and murmured,
“And I wrote this over the last few weeks. I normally do it on guitar, but…let’s
see…” He started to sing.

“
The sky outside my window
is blooming up with dawn,
and you’re the one I’m breathing in,
you’re the man I want…”

The rest of the song came out easily enough, full of clichés
and always short of truly good, but it felt right to be singing it for Jesse
when he was the one who’d inspired it—the one who was bringing Christopher’s
music back to him. When he finished, he lifted his hands from the keys and
lowered the cover. His heart hammered, anxiety and embarrassment threatening.
Why had he made himself so vulnerable so soon?

Vulnerability is a gift, baby. A gift
not many are brave enough to give.

Not now, Gran.

He turned to Jesse and discovered he was on his knees close
to the piano now, his eyes closed and head tilted back, his hands palm up on
his thighs and an expression of surrender on his face. Christopher swallowed
thickly, his heart clenching at how open and trusting Jesse looked.

“I wrote that one about you,” he whispered.

Jesse swallowed, and Christopher watched his Adam’s apple
bob up and down. He didn’t move, though, like he was waiting for something
else, something more, or maybe something again.

“Do you want me to play it again?”

Jesse nodded, and Christopher once more uncovered the keys
and tenderly moved his way through his song for Jesse—and that seemed like a
good title for the piece.

They kissed in the living room after Christopher
finished playing his songs. Jesse wasn’t an idiot. He knew they weren’t hits,
and he understood why Christopher had never been able to make it in Nashville
and never would. But they were wonderful songs, and each one held a kernel of
something beautiful—something that made Jesse want to bury himself in
Christopher and never come out again.

They felt safe and warm, and tender and open. They felt like
they were on the verge of going feral, but too self-conscious to ever run wild.
They were a lot like Christopher in bed, only so much less confident, and that
made Jesse want to hold each song close until he’d loved it whole.

It made him want to hear them again.

Christopher was so pliant in his arms, eager and hot, but
the storm of children’s feet brought their make-out session to a halt. Jesse
pressed a kiss to Christopher’s cheek before turning to make his way out into
the hallway, calling, “What do we need now? More popcorn? Pizza?”

He understood when Christopher didn’t immediately follow
that he needed a minute to get himself together. He’d had to adjust his own
dick as he walked to the kitchen, happy that it was under control by the time
he arrived to witness FJ, Will, Brigid, Charity, and Meredith digging the
various flavors of ice cream out of the freezer.

“Gonna make floats!” Will said, tugging the cookies-n-cream
from Brigid’s hands and tossing the butter pecan to Frankie-Jones.

“We need the orange sodas from the garage,” Brigid said. “For
the sherbet floats.”

“You know where they are and you have arms. Go get them
yourselves,” Jesse said, opening a kitchen drawer to pull out several ice cream
scoops and a few big spoons. As Brigid surprisingly did what he asked, he
reached into the cupboard and pulled down seven bowls and seven tall glasses,
moving them all to the big kitchen table.

The origami cranes he’d made with Brigid earlier still sat
on the side of the table as the ice cream and sodas piled up. Christopher
appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, his cheeks flushed and a shy smile on
his face.