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Can’t never could. Now, try again, she’d reply.

I shift my legs beneath me crisscross applesauce, lean forward into my guitar, and close my eyes. The body of the guitar is warm from the sun, the nylon strings familiar under my fingertips. I listen to the wind rustle the trees and the birds chatter as they dart from branch to branch. The soft scent of pine floats in my direction, and I can almost taste the smoke of a campfire, though I can’t tell if someone’s really got a fire going or if it’s just my imagination.

I take a deep breath and focus on letting my diaphragm expand.

I don’t think. I just play.

And play.

And play.

I’ve been sitting out here for hours and all I’ve managed to come up with is a boring melody and six pathetic lines:

Taillights bleed into the dark

I’m left alone in this car park

I wasn’t ready for you to let me go.

After everything that we’ve been through

I didn’t mean that much to you

And I don’t know how I’ll make it on my own.

I’m drained and hungry and feeling more defeated by the minute. I’d hoped that being outside would inspire me, but the only thing the fresh air and sunshine have accomplished is tuckering me out.

It doesn’t help that I can’t stop wondering about Paisley. Why was she so short with me when I introduced myself? I know she had things to do, but her attitude started before I even said so much as “hi.” And then to hear her voice? If she’s that good at singing, I can only imagine how incredible a songwriter she is. She has to be if Barry signed her to write music for Exit 12S. Which I guess makes her quick agreement that we wouldn’t work together sting. Especially since she didn’t seem to mind. Does she think I’m not good enough for her?

So much for sending me to a place with no distractions, Barry.

I make my way back through the maze of Christmas trees. When I come around the corner, there are groups of families milling about in a clearing. The woman who was working the cash register at the store yesterday is handing out clipboards and pencils. Her resemblance to Paisley is undeniable, so I bet she’s her mother. I realize that I probably should’ve introduced myself to the owners right after I first arrived. Better late than never, I suppose.

She finishes passing out the supplies and then says, “The clues will lead you to different stamps we’ve hidden around the farm. When you find one, use it to mark the correct box. Once you’ve completed the scavenger hunt, you can bring your sheets to the cocoa stand to collect your prizes. There’s still plenty of daylight left, so don’t rush.”

I hang back until the groups have all wandered off. “Mrs. Morgan?” I ask.

She turns to me with a smile. “You must be our guest, Murray.”

“Kash Murray,” I say, holding out my hand. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Jenny Morgan.” She gives my hand a firm shake. “You settled in okay over at the Hideaway?”

“Just great,” I say.

Mrs. Morgan glances at my guitar case. “Are you looking for Paisley? I thought she said the two of you were going to meet up to write in the mornings. It’ll be hard to pin her down now. As you can see, the afternoons get awfully busy here.”

I’m not not looking for Paisley, but I really have no reason to find her other than to satisfy my own curiosity. “I, uh…”

“Paisley’s probably with the reindeer.” She points in the general direction of the small red barn. “Before you head over there, I should introduce you to my husband, Travis.”

She leads me over to two men who are standing next to the same large riding mower I saw parked outside the shed the day I arrived.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she says warmly. “I hate to interrupt a meeting of the minds. Are you making any progress?”

Both men look over at her with a frown.

“Could be the alternator,” says the shorter man with a crew cut and a tan Carhartt jacket.