Sing (8 page)

70 Days Until Tour

July 4th

“YOUR GUITAR WILL
still be there when we get back.”

Tess pulls the Pree up to a rambling Victorian home at the end of Main Street as Sammy reaches into the backseat for the picnic basket. “Come on,” she urges. “You love parades.”

I follow them out of the car and up onto the wide front porch of Latham's grandparents' house. The railings are draped in patriotic bunting and a giant flag hangs over the doorway. Sammy's right: I do love parades, and it's been a while since I've been able to watch one as a nameless face in the crowd. But when Tess announced that Latham had invited us to watch the island's Fourth
of July celebration from the privacy of his family's balcony, I was anxious more than anything else.

I still haven't told either Tess or Sammy that I've been spending time with Noel. I hate sneaking around, but I'm not ready. Things with Noel are so easy, a stress-free escape. And exploring the island with him has been just the creative spark that I've needed. I don't want to risk losing that by making it public, even—or maybe especially—among my closest friends.

It's been a week since that night at the quarry, and the songs have been pouring out. The first one, “Anchors,” led to the next, “At Sea,” a narrative ballad about the floating cabin couple. I imagined their love story, from start to finish—their small-town courtship and Saturday-morning routines.

Then came one about a group of boys and girls I watched fishing off the jetty behind our house. They were young, maybe ten or eleven, and I watched them for over an hour. I closed my eyes and listened to the cadence of their voices as they hunted for treasures in the rocks. Their lives—without the complications of romantic love—seemed so carefree. I turned the scene into a song called “Skipping Stones” by lunchtime.

And just last night, after Sammy and Tess went to bed, I looked through one of Tess's family photo albums and jotted down notes for a song called “Summer Stay.” It's
a somewhat fictionalized account of a beloved vacation home that sees a young girl through her parents' divorce. It's the first time I've ever written about one of my friends directly, and I feel a nervous flutter in my chest when I think about sharing it with Tess.

As Tess rings the bell I notice Noel's truck wedged up on the lawn. A swirl of butterflies zips around my stomach. We have a plan to play things cool, but even so: I can't wait to see him.

J.T. swings the grand front door inward and gestures gallantly to the foyer. “Ladies.” His scruffy beard has been tamed and he wears khaki shorts and a stiff red polo that looks newly bought. I imagine it's the first time he's gotten “dressed up” all year and I'm surprisingly touched by the effort. I peer behind J.T. at the sitting room, formally appointed with upholstered chairs and a crystal chandelier.

“Are you sure we're allowed to be in here?” Tess asks as we follow him up the carpeted main staircase to the second floor. French doors off the landing lead to a long, narrow balcony. Latham waits outside wearing a red-white-and-blue–striped button-down. He offers us noisemakers as we join him.

“Are you kidding?” Latham asks. “My grandmother just about collapsed when I told her you were coming. Although she did ask for a picture. She wants to show it off at church.”

I smile. “I'd be honored. Where is she now?”

“They live in Florida,” Latham explains, pouring us each a plastic cup of iced tea from a pitcher on the balcony table. “They used to spend summers here, but now it's getting harder to travel.”

There's a brush of air behind me and I turn to see Noel opening the door. Of the three of them, he's dressed the most casually, in a plain white T-shirt and olive-green shorts. As he passes, I can smell the familiar hints of his shampoo, and my heart races. My eyes land on the crook of his tanned neck and shoulder, where just last night my head was resting. I flash him a quick smile and he gives me a conspiratorial nod, before greeting Tess with a warm hug.

“I didn't know you were going to be here.” Tess smiles, shoving him playfully in the side. “You used to hate this parade. You said it was for tourists and two-year-olds.”

Noel's cheeks redden and he shrugs. “I guess it's growing on me,” he says. “Especially now that we don't have to watch it with the riffraff.”

He gestures to the street where the crowds are starting to gather, lining the curb three-deep. Kids in strollers lick messy ice cream cones while their parents navigate potholes in the pavement, searching for the perfect parade-watching spot. Police officers stand on patrol,
cutting off traffic with simple barricades. In the distance, I start to hear the patter of marching band drums, the trill of trumpets and horns.

We move to the far side of the wraparound balcony, craning to see the approaching procession. The first rows of synchronized players march into view, flanked by bright banners and teenage girls with batons. Behind them, a cluster of elderly veterans smile at the crowd, some pushing others in wheelchairs, waving to friends and neighbors on the sidelines and tossing candy to the crowd.

I feel my eyes getting damp. Grandpa and his army buddies always march in our parade back home, and I used to help him get ready, hoping he'd sneak me a piece of candy before lining up in formation. Fourth of July has always been my favorite holiday, although in recent years I've moved on to more elaborate traditions. Last year I convinced Jed to throw an epic party at his house in the Hamptons, complete with water slides and private fireworks over the water. It was two hundred people I barely knew, but I loved every minute of it. It's strange that I can be equally satisfied, dressed to the nines and hosting a catered affair, or gleefully blowing into a plastic party favor as I cheer on a town parade.

The guys—who have been busy reminiscing about the years they marched as Boy Scouts or captains of various
sports teams—join us on our side of the balcony. As Noel passes, he finds my hand for a clandestine squeeze, and I feel a thrilling jolt. He whistles to a pair of old ladies, inching past in a vintage car. They honk and wave, and I find myself enthusiastically waving back, as if I'm front row at somebody else's concert, giddy to be part of the crowd.

Night falls. Birds quiet, cicadas hum, the sapphire sky turns purple, then black. I sit alone on the screened porch with my journal, working out new lyrics. I had the idea on the way home from the parade. The song is called “July,” and it's about the joys of unwrapping candy, sparklers and fireworks and the ways the holiday changes as a girl grows older. It's about innocence, and finding what's been lost. I'm half-singing the melody when Tess knocks on the door, her dark hair wavy and wet from the shower.

“You're sure you don't want to come?” she asks, folding a thin quilt and stuffing it into a bag over her shoulder. Sammy appears behind her, adorable in a white skirt and red-and-white-striped halter. Her freckled skin has turned a light bronze, her strawberry hair lightening to blond at the tips.

The guys told us about a spot on the point where
everyone goes to watch the fireworks. I'd thought it would be the perfect place for Noel and me to sneak away—we could duck behind the lit-up dunes and share a secret kiss to the soundtrack of the booming lights and
ooh
s and
aah
s of the crowd on the beach. But after we left, Noel texted that he had other ideas.

I check the time quickly on my phone, then nod at my guitar on the cushioned bench beside me. “We've got work to do,” I say. “But you guys go ahead. I'll be fine.”

Sammy gives me a thumbs-up and follows Tess outside. Once their headlights have disappeared, I pack up my guitar and fold my journal shut. My heart feels heavy. As much as I'm trying to avoid it, there's a distance growing between my friends and me, and it makes me feel unsteady, like I'm walking a tightrope, constantly lunging from one side to the other, desperate to stay upright.

But as I speed-walk down the moonlit trail, squinting toward the rickety dock where Noel and his boat are waiting, the guilt and discomfort fade away, an eager, bubbling anticipation filling me up in their place.

Noel waves, and I start to skip toward him, holding my hands out like I'm flying. When I reach him I wrap my arms around his sturdy waist. “Sorry I'm late,” I say, slightly out of breath.

“Skipping's hard work,” he teases, ruffling the top of my hair.

He helps me onto the boat and we motor away from the shore. There's a cluster of boats gathered around the harbor, mainlanders coming to anchor for the show. Noel steers around them toward a secluded spot farther away. When there's not another boat or building in sight, he cuts the engine, and we bob in the quiet on the calm waters.

“My dad used to take us out here,” he says, twisting the top of a thermos and handing it to me. I take a sip: warm cider, with hints of orange and cinnamon, perfect for the chilly night. “I used to hate it. All my friends would be at the beach or in the harbor. But he said fireworks were made to be seen from a distance.”

Noel takes a sip of cider and wedges the thermos into a cup holder. “And now you agree?” I ask.

Noel shrugs. “We'll find out,” he says. “I haven't watched the fireworks in years.”

I scoff playfully. “No parades, no fireworks?” I ask. “What kind of all-American boy are you?”

Noel half smiles, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “Not a very good one, I guess. I don't know. I was away, and now I'm usually busy working. I don't get a lot of time off.”

Unease roils my stomach. Of course he's been busy. He's basically supporting his family, raising his little sister. Not everyone has the luxury of planning parties at every occasion.

“But mostly I just haven't had anyone to watch them with,” he says, giving my waist a nudge with his elbow.

“I find that hard to believe,” I say. “I have a feeling the Noel Bradley fan club is not lacking for members.”

Noel rubs a calloused hand over his lightly stubbled chin. “It used to be bigger,” he concedes.

“I'm not afraid of a little competition,” I say, tilting my face to plant a kiss on the side of his strong jaw. “As long as I can be board president.”

He turns to kiss me on the lips, then pulls away. His eyes are full of something, like he's searching for words again. I quickly kiss his nose.

“Let's go in,” I say, glancing out over his shoulder at the shimmering black water.

“In?” he repeats with a bemused chuckle. But I'm already undressing, peeling off my outer layers and feeling the prickle of cool night air on my skin. I stand in my bra and underwear on the lip of the boat's edge. Noel looks at me disbelievingly and I give him a smile before arching my hands over my head and diving.

The water is freezing, a numbing, arctic shock, but when I resurface the air feels warmer, and my body tingles, like my limbs are suddenly electric. “It's amazing!” I shout back to the boat, but Noel is already airborne, diving over my head. He slips into the water
behind me, and as he comes up for air, his legs tangle with mine.

“You're out of your mind.” He shivers, hugging me tight.

I laugh into the cold, wet brush of his hair. “Probably.”

“Thank you,” he says, whispering into my ear.

“For what?”

“For this.” He splashes the water between us. “For skipping.”

I pull back to look at him, his teeth lightly chattering, his big blue eyes searching mine. In the distance there's a high-pitched squeal and a trail of light shoots up from the water. The first pop echoes around the island, a shimmery white explosion bursting overhead. We tread water and stare with our mouths hanging open, mid-smile, ready for our own private show.

67 Days Until Tour

July 7th

“TELL ME SOMETHING
good.”

Terry's voice is clipped, like he's trying not to panic. It's early in the morning and I wonder how many cups of coffee he's had, and if he's been sleeping on the leather couch in his office, as he typically does when he's worked up.

“Well, I've written five songs and I think I have our first single,” I say nonchalantly, leaning back into the lawn chair on the back porch. “Does that count as good?” Tess and Sammy are still sleeping—they were out late at a beach bonfire last night—and I'm trying to keep my voice low, but Terry's exuberant screeches and hollers are probably loud enough to wake them.

“I knew it!” he shouts. “I
knew
you could do it.” I don't bother to remind him that he hadn't sounded wholly convinced the last time we spoke. “When can I hear them?”

I laugh and stretch my tanned legs out toward the deck railing. “I've done a few rough cuts on my phone. I can send them now.”

Terry whoops again and I can practically hear him composing emails to the label guys and publicity team, rushing to plan sessions. “Great, great,” he murmurs distractedly. “And when are you coming back?”

My smile tightens and I clear my throat. “That's the thing,” I say carefully. “I'm not.”

I hear the clacking of Terry's fingers on the keys pause and pick up again, the slight hiccup in his breathing. “What do you mean?”

“I want to stay until the end of the summer,” I say. “Things are going so well, I'm writing like crazy, and I think it would be . . . irresponsible to come back to the city now.”

I hold my breath and wait. It's all true; I have been feeling more creatively inspired than ever before. Though occasionally, thoughts of Jed still creep in, I've managed to find a way to stay focused, and the new songs have been coming from an entirely different place. It's a place that's linked to my life and environment, my friends, but
most of all, the island, and not a breakup or particular person.

But as I'm talking I hear the uneven pitch of my voice and I know I'm not being totally honest. There's another reason I don't want to leave so soon. A five-foot-ten-inch, charmingly aloof, and ruggedly handsome reason named Noel. And even if the songs aren't about him, I'm a little panicked that this new well of creativity would dry up if our relationship suddenly ended.

“I was thinking we could record out here,” I eagerly continue.

“Out there?” Terry chuckles. “Where, on the beach?”

“Why not?” I ask. “This place . . . just wait until you see it, Terry. It's really special. And I've been feeling . . . I'm ready to do something different. I've given it a lot of thought.”

Terry sighs, the familiar sigh of surrender. He can tell that I've made up my mind.

“You're the boss,” he says at last. “I'll handle everything.”

“Thanks, Terry.” I smile. “I owe you.”

“What else is new,” he mutters, but I know he's smiling, too.

We hang up and I scroll around my phone, looking for the most recent recording I've made of “Anchors
.
” It's the perfect song for a single, up-tempo enough but
unlike anything I've done before. I send it to Terry in an email and rush inside, already feeling better.

Tess and Sam are in the kitchen when I get there, brewing coffee and ladling spoonfuls of yogurt into ceramic bowls.

“Morning, sunshines!” I reach into the fridge to pour myself a glass of the fresh-squeezed orange juice Tess brought back from the farmers' market last Sunday.

“What's her problem?” Tess grumbles to Sammy, her eyes puffy and still not totally open.

“I have the opposite of problems,” I say cheerily. “I have great news.”

“You found a place with real coffee on this island?” Tess asks, wincing as she pours the last of the bag she brought with her into the paper filter.

“I just talked to Terry,” I say. “And we're going to record here!”

Sammy looks around the kitchen. “Where?” she asks as if I might set up a sound booth in the pantry.

“On the island,” I say. “That way I don't have to leave. The guys will bring everything we need. They'll only stay for a few days . . .”

“Stay here?” Tess asks. “In this house?”

I turn quickly to look at her. “Sure,” I say. “That's all right, isn't it?”

A series of expressions I can't quite read flashes across her face.

“Or at the B and B in town,” I backtrack. “Whatever you want. I just thought you'd be happy we don't have to race back to the city.”

Sammy nods encouragingly at Tess. “We are happy.”

I see Tess's shoulders drop almost imperceptibly. “Of course we're happy,” she says finally. “It will be fun.”

“Great,” I say, staring over their heads into the screened-in porch. “I was thinking we could record out there. It will take some work getting things ready . . .”

“We're on it,” Sammy says, scarfing down the last of her yogurt. Tess's phone buzzes on the table and she picks it up. I can tell by the low cinch of her brow that it's Terry. The wheels are in motion, the work is about to begin.

Terry arrives on the first boat Thursday morning. Ray and K2 take me to the harbor to meet him and I feel the way I did on visiting day at camp, scanning the line of slow-moving cars for my parents' navy-blue Honda Civic: one part giddy about seeing a familiar face and one part anxious, not sure I'm ready for two worlds to collide.

The boat pulls slowly into the slip. Terry is standing behind the chain on the lower deck, wearing dark jeans
and a white linen shirt, a leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Even from across the parking lot I can see that his hair, usually gelled into sleek points, is slightly overgrown, and there are dark, tired shadows under his eyes.

“You couldn't have hidden out in the Hamptons?” Terry barks as he walks briskly to the car. I squeeze him in a hug. I've spent so much of my time here trying to avoid him and his questions that I haven't realized how much I've missed him. Terry complains more than anyone I know, but he has believed in me from the very beginning. From our first meeting at an open mic in Madison, to the early, brutal days of all-night signings and meet-and-greets in every state, he's seen me through every career move, every up and down. Next to my parents, I trust him more than anyone on the planet, and as strange as it is to be suddenly thrust back into work mode, it feels right that he's here.

Terry shakes hands with Ray and K2 and we climb into the backseat. I hand him the coffee we picked up on the way. I feel a little bit like a matchmaker, sitting in on a first date between Terry and the island. I roll down the window and take a deep breath, trying to see the quaint town, the meandering coast, through new eyes.

“You're really going to love it here,” I say, beaming as the car bumps around a pothole.

“Lil, I don't care if you had to live in a van under the Brooklyn Bridge,” he says, wiping a drop of spilled coffee from the knee of his jeans. “If it makes you write songs like these new ones, it's paradise.”

“Really?” It's always nerve-racking getting feedback, especially from Terry. When new material starts to come out, it feels so mysterious. If I don't get it right the first time, I always fear that I won't be able to get back to that inspired place ever again.

Terry nods matter-of-factly. “Really.” He rubs his hands over his eyes and sighs. “I gotta say, you gave us all a real scare. I thought you were pulling some Britney Spears shit.”

I give Terry's shoulder a shove as we pull out of town and start up the long dirt road to the house. “No, you didn't.”

Terry squeezes my fingers. “No,” he says. “I didn't. But I didn't know you had
this
in you, either.”

I smile. “That good?”

I always get chills when I hear somebody talk about my music in a way that makes it seem like it's not just mine. I put so much of myself into my songs, sometimes I forget that anybody else will ever hear them.

“Here we are,” I say as K2 slows to a stop, dust kicking up around us.

Terry leans across me to get a better look. “This is
where you've been staying?” he asks incredulously as I climb out first.

I bound excitedly up the uneven front steps. “Isn't it fantastic?”

“It's something . . .” Terry grumbles, following me inside. Sam is in the kitchen making waffles and Tess is sprawled on the couch with her phone. They both jump when they see us, running into the crowded hall.

“Terry!” Sam squeals, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Tess unravels Terry's bag from his shoulder. “Tell me you brought provisions.”

Terry walks pointedly into the small kitchen and stands over the sink, dramatically emptying out the sludgy contents of the cup I brought him down the drain. “Never fear, ladies,” he says, reaching into his bag and pulling out a paper bag of the trendy imported coffee beans he has delivered to his office every week. “Terry's here.”