“That was a long time ago, Esther. We haven’t even spoken in years.”
“Time doesn’t matter. When emotions are real, they remain,” she says cryptically.
I don’t reply to that, deciding the best course of action is to just let it go.
I hug her and kiss her cheek. “I’ll check on you when I get back in town. You and Henry still owe me a chance to get my matchsticks back,” I laugh. Our bi-weekly poker game is something I love. We don’t bet money and it’s a good thing because I think Henry and Esther are just a couple steps away from being card sharks.
“Sounds good. You remember to check in.”
“Will do,” I laugh. “Love you, Esther.”
“Love you, too, Callie,” she replies as she escorts me to the door. I give her one last glance before I head out. As I do, I take in the outside air.
Change is definitely coming soon.
I’m just praying it doesn’t have to do with Reed. I’m not sure I can handle that.
CHAPTER 6
Reed
The Next Day
I’m at loose ends. I thought the solitude at the house would help me write—considering I need a couple more songs for my album. I’m finding that I can’t write, though. I look at the clock on my truck dashboard. Six-thirty. Mr. Johnson should be home. It will be good to see him and his wife again. I’ve truly missed them. Besides Callie and Katie, they’re about the only ones I ever missed from Macon.
I pull up into their driveway and smile. Nothing has changed much. There’s a large flowerbed against the side of house filled with flowers. Along the borders of it are large, white flowers that are in full bloom. I’m not sure what they are, but they’re beautiful. I thought Mrs. Johnson said she had given up landscaping because she wasn’t able to plant and dig like she once did. Apparently, she got better—or maybe she hired someone to do it. Either way, it’s pretty.
As I get out and walk closer to the house, I notice signs of wear on the place. The wood windows really need to be replaced. There are spots where you can see rot—despite a new coat of paint. The windowpanes are showing signs of age, too. Guilt hits me. Mr. Johnson was like a father to me and except for flying them out to one of my concerts and sending them Christmas presents, I’ve kind of forgotten them. It wasn’t intentional. I was mostly trying to forget anything about Macon, hoping the pain of losing Callie would hurt less.
I rub the side of my face, scratching my beard on reflex. Maybe I need to make some changes in my personal life as well as my professional one. The man Mr. Johnson tried to teach me to be—the kind of man I wanted to be—would have never walked away from the people who love him without saying a word.
I knock on the door and wait. I can hear shuffling around inside the house. I’m really looking forward to seeing them again. It’s been way too long. Mr. Johnson opens the door, and he looks at me a minute before a slow smile spreads on his face. His eyes warm, too. I’m not sure how long it has been since I could tell someone was glad to see me—me, not Ryker Lane—and I have to admit, it feels good.
“Reed!” he says gruffly. He brings me in for a hug and I let him, enjoying the feel of his hand roughly clapping against my back.
“Hey, Mr. Johnson. I’m sorry for coming by so late. I probably should have called—”
“Nonsense. Family never has to call. It sure is good to see you, Reed.”
“You, too,” I answer as we step back from one another.
“Henry? Who’s at the door?”
“It’s our boy, Momma,” he replies. Those simple words that Mr. Johnson spoke without thinking, hit me so deep that I have trouble catching my breath.
“Reed!” I hear her cry, proving that she feels much the same way. A minute later she appears at the door. “Henry, don’t keep him outside all night. Let him in,” she chastises.
“I was about to, Esther.”
Mr. Johnson steps back and I go inside. His wife immediately wraps her arms around me.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she croons, hugging me close.
“You, too, Mrs. Johnson,” I laugh. I’m being honest, though. Being back with them puts me at ease in a way that I haven’t been in way too long.
“You mean Esther. I swear, what is it with young people? We’re family and you’re just in time.”
“In time?”
“For dinner, dear. We’re just sitting down to eat.”
As Mr. Johnson closes the door, I walk beside his wife.
“Oh, I’m not hungry. I appreciate you offering, though,” I decline, not wanting to intrude on their meal. “I can’t stay long anyway—”