Page 20

We just want to thank everyone that helped us get “Better Without You” to number one on the Nashville country charts.

I growl and lock the phone.

Eventually, the Town Car turns down a gravel road and bumps over ruts, potholes, and washed-out areas. Every jostle and jerk over the dirt drive sends a spike of pain to my temples and rattles my bones. It reminds me of riding around in the tour van with its worn-out shocks, minus the backstabbing ex-bandmates.

Neatly trimmed green shrubs line the drive, and in the distance I see rows and rows of carefully planted trees of all different shapes and sizes. We pass by a large white farmhouse with a wraparound porch. A little farther on is a weathered shed with a riding lawn mower parked outside and then a small red barn with an attached corral.

We come to a fork in the road with a signpost. The arrow pointing to the right says Christmas Trees. The arrow pointing to the left says The Hideaway.

We veer to the left and travel down a narrow lane surrounded by oak and maple trees whose gnarled branches reach toward the crystal-blue sky. When the driver finally stops the car in front of a log cabin, I push the door open and step outside on stiff legs. The fresh fall air is clean and crisp, and I blink at the sudden brilliance of the afternoon sun, too bright for my eyes after sitting in a car with dark tinted windows. It doesn’t help that my head is throbbing and I feel like I might puke. I throw on a pair of dark sunglasses, pull my suitcase and guitar from the trunk, and make my way up the short gravel walkway to the covered porch. Nailed to one of the posts is a hand-painted sign: The Hideaway at Hidden Acres.

The stairs are well-worn but are surprisingly sturdy beneath my boots as I stride up to the front door. A black wall-mounted mailbox hangs beside it, and when I flip up the lid, there’s a key inside, just like Barry said there would be.

So much for security.

But then again, this place is pretty remote.

Maybe the check-in process at a place like this is a bit more relaxed. Or maybe the owners got sick of waiting around for me to arrive? I am a few hours later than expected.

The carved wooden music note on the key chain bounces against my wrist when I shove the key in the lock. The moment I step inside the cabin, I’m greeted by the scent of fresh-baked cookies. It’s larger than I expected, with vaulted wood-paneled ceilings and farmhouse-country decor. The main living space is open and airy, with a stone fireplace on the far wall. A wooden stairway leads up to what appears to be a loft, where I assume the bedroom is. The whole space has a warm, inviting, homey vibe that instantly makes me feel more at ease.

The scent of baked sugar and vanilla makes my stomach grumble. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I set my things down next to the door and make my way to the kitchenette tucked into the far side of the main room. On the butcher block counter is a plate with half a dozen fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies along with a typed note:

Welcome to the Hideaway at Hidden Acres!

Whether you’re here to relax, refresh, or rock out in the studio, we hope your stay is unforgettable.

Please note:

Extra linens are in the closet upstairs.

The fireplace flue damper must be opened before use.

The studio has a separate entrance, located around back.

If you need anything, please call the farmhouse from the landline by pressing the reception button.

We hope you enjoy your stay.

The Morgans

Beneath it is a handwritten note in blue ink and ridiculously neat penmanship:

Sorry we weren’t able to get started on your demo today. I’ll meet you in the studio tomorrow at 9 a.m. Bring your guitar. ~P.M.

“I’m not sorry,” I mumble, reaching for a cookie.

I’m still not sold on the idea that I need anyone’s help writing music, let alone some random stranger Barry’s lined up for me. And what kind of musician is up at nine a.m., anyhow? No one I want to know. Plus, Barry said it was my choice whether I was going to work with this chick. It’s a bit presumptuous of her to just assume I’m going to show up to the studio at her beck and call. I’ve written stuff before and I can do it again. I don’t need anyone’s help this time around.

I devour two more cookies and then grab another before hauling my suitcase upstairs. The bedroom is cozy, with a king-sized bed taking up most of the space. The fluffy white comforter looks as soft as a cloud. I kick off my boots and lie back, hoping a bit of rest will help with my headache.

My mind wanders as I relax, but I can’t ease all the tension that has my neck muscles in knots. I’m carrying a heavy weight that I won’t be able to put down until I deliver those songs.

I only need to write six songs.

Just. Six. Songs.

Track 7