Jacobs Story Ch 14 16

Chapter Fourteen

In the end, Lydia left with all the songs they'd selected--twelve including "The Father Song." She'd stayed in town for two weeks, finding a local studio willing to accommodate Jacob's need for privacy. Together, they'd produced the Father Song into something they were both proud of. Their collaboration had been seamless, each bringing their strengths--Jacob's raw emotional honesty and melodic instinct, Lydia's technical precision and performance experience.

While she flew back to Nashville to start her new life, Jacob returned to his old one, somewhat stunned at what had just happened. The viral moment eventually died down, though not before "The Father Song" had been released as a single and begun climbing the adult contemporary charts. Jacob had kept his end of the bargain, staying completely out of the public eye while Lydia handled the promotion and interviews, always crediting him as her co-creator with genuine respect.

Nine months went by. Jacob continued his routine--welding by day, playing at The Blue Note occasionally, busking at the farmer's market on weekends. The only tangible difference in his life was the steady flow of royalty checks, growing larger as "The Father Song" found its audience and the album, titled "Watching You Fly," gained critical acclaim and commercial success.

The money accumulated in his checking account, untouched. Jacob had no experience with wealth, no framework for what to do with it. His needs were simple--rent, food, art supplies, guitar strings, work clothing. The growing sum felt unreal, almost threatening in its potential to disrupt his carefully constructed life.

Which is how, on a crisp fall morning, Jacob dialed a number he hadn't called in years. "Tommy," he said when the call connected. "It's Jacob Whitney. I need some help."

They met at a quiet resturant on the outskirts of the financial district, a neutral ground between Jacob's working-class neighborhood and Tom Wilks' sleek downtown office. Jacob arrived early, as was his habit, securing a booth in the back corner where his scarred face would be less visible to other patrons.

Tom Wilks was a bona fide financial genius, a graduate of Stanford and MIT, now a rising star at one of the city's premier investment firms. What most of his colleagues didn't know was his background--the group home years, the struggles, the unlikely friendship with a scarred, silent boy who had become his protector and later one of his closest friends.

Jacob spotted Tom the moment he walked in--tall, black man, impeccably dressed in a tailored blue pinstripe suit that probably cost more than Jacob's monthly rent. Despite the professional polish, Jacob immediately recognized the watchful eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders--habits formed early, never fully abandoned despite his success.

Tom's face broke into a genuine smile when he saw Jacob. No hesitation, no awkwardness, just pure recognition and pleasure. "Jacob," he said, sliding into the booth. "Man, it's been what? Four years?"

"Five," Jacob corrected, returning the smile. "Since you got the job at Meridian Partners."

"Right, right." Tom studied him for a moment. "You look good. Same, but good."

Jacob nodded, acknowledging both the compliment and the tacit observation that his life hadn't changed much. "You look successful."

Tom laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "That's one word for it." He waved the waitress over, ordered coffee, then leaned forward. "So. You need help. Those aren't words I ever expected to hear from Jacob Whitney."

"Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are."

"This have anything to do with you suddenly becoming a hit songwriter?" Tom asked casually, his expression knowing.

Jacob blinked in surprise. "You know about that?"

"Of course, I know about that. Lydia Summers' new album is all over the place, and your name is right there in the credits. 'The Father Song' is practically inescapable--it's in commercials, on every radio station." Tom shook his head, a hint of pride in his expression. "You couldn't have mentioned this when it was happening? Had to let me find out when my assistant was playing it in the office?"

Jacob's lips quirked in a slight smile. "It all happened fast. And you know how I am about attention."

"Yeah, I do." Tom accepted the coffee the waitress brought, waiting until she moved away before continuing. "So what kind of help does a suddenly successful songwriter need from a financial advisor?"

Jacob reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded bank statement. He slid it across the table without a word.

Tom's eyes widened as he scanned the document. "That's... substantial. And this is just from royalties?"

"So far. There's more coming. The album's doing well, and Lydia wants to record more of my songs for her next project. Plus, other artists are asking about my back catalog." Jacob ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of uncertainty. "I do not know what to do with it, Tommy. It's just sitting there."

Tom folded the statement carefully, his expression shifting from surprised friend to professional advisor. "Okay. First things first. This money--it's an opportunity, not a problem. But I understand why it feels overwhelming."

"I don't need it," Jacob said simply. "My life works the way it is."

"Maybe so, but financial security isn't about what you need right now. It's about possibilities." Tom took a sip of his coffee, considering his next words. "Remember when we used to talk about 'someday'? Like, someday we'd get out of here, someday we'd eat whatever we wanted, someday we'd have our own place?"

Jacob nodded, remembering those late-night conversations in the group home, whispered dreams that had seemed impossible.

"Well, this is your 'someday' fund," Tom continued. "It's not about changing your life today. It's about knowing you can if you ever want to. It's about having options."

There was wisdom in Tom's words, a perspective Jacob hadn't considered. The money wasn't just currency; it was potential freedom, security he'd never experienced.

"So, what do I do with it?" Jacob asked.

"We diversify. Some in safe, boring investments that'll grow slowly but steadily. Some in a more accessible account for emergencies or opportunities. Maybe a small property investment." Tom was warming to the subject, his expertise evident. "And we should think about tax planning, especially with ongoing royalty income."

Jacob listened as Tom outlined a preliminary strategy, the tension in his shoulders gradually easing. This was why he'd called Tommy--not just for financial expertise, but for the trust built over years, for the understanding that came from shared history.

"There's one more thing," Jacob said when Tom paused. "Down the road, I want to set something up. For kids like us. From the group homes."

Tom's expression softened. "A foundation?"

"Maybe. Something to help with college or trade school. Art supplies, instruments. Things that seem like luxuries when you're just trying to survive, but that would make a difference for some kid." Jacob met his friend's eyes directly. "Could you help with that, too?"

"Absolutely," Tom replied without hesitation. "We'll set it up right, make sure the money goes where it should."

They spent the next hour outlining possibilities, Tom making notes on a sleek tablet, Jacob occasionally asking questions that revealed his practical intelligence despite his lack of financial education. The initial awkwardness of reunion had dissolved completely, replaced by the comfortable rhythm of two people who knew each other's histories, who didn't need explanations or context.

When the meeting wound down, Tom closed his tablet and looked at Jacob with curiosity. "Can I ask you something? About the songwriting?"

Jacob nodded, though a hint of wariness returned to his posture.

"Why now? You've been writing songs for years. What made you finally share them?"

It was a good question, one Jacob had asked himself many times over the past months. "I didn't plan it," he finally said. "It was just... the right person at the right time. Jet first, then Lydia. Things just kept...snowballing."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "Well, you always could read people. Know who to trust."

"Not always," Jacob replied, a shadow of old pain crossing his face. "But I'm learning."

As they prepared to leave, Tom pulled a business card from his pocket, sliding it across the table. "My new cell number," he explained. "Not just for financial stuff. For anything. It's been too long, Jacob."

Jacob accepted the card, tucking it carefully into his wallet. "It has."

Outside the diner, as they prepared to part ways--Tom to his downtown office, Jacob to his welding shift--Tom paused. "You know, most people who suddenly come into money want to change everything about their lives. New car, new clothes, new friends."

"I'm not most people," Jacob said simply.

"No, you're not." Tom smiled. "And that's why your songs work. Because you see what's real. Always have."

They shook hands and hugged, an adult gesture layered over early years of shared brotherhood--fistfights and late-night talks, protecting each other from bigger kids and indifferent adults, celebrating small victories in a system designed to process rather than nurture.

"I'll have a proper plan for you next week," Tom promised.

"Thanks, Tommy," Jacob replied. Then, with uncharacteristic impulsiveness, he added, "Come to the market sometime. Saturday mornings. I'm still playing there."

"The famous Jacob Whitney, performing for free at a farmer's market?" Tom's tone was teasing, but gentle. "Wouldn't miss it."

As Jacob walked to the bus stop, he felt lighter than he had in months. The money was still there, the success still unexpected, the attention still uncomfortable. But now it had context, purpose beyond accumulation. It made possibilities.

And for a man who had spent his life observing others' stories from the outside, possibilities were the most unexpected gift of all.

Chapter Fifteen

The Blue Note had changed in subtle ways since Jacob's songs with Lydia had gained popularity. The Thursday night crowd had grown, and while most regulars respectfully maintained Jacob's privacy, there was an undeniable shift in the atmosphere. People listened more intently. Phones stayed tucked away, not only because Elena had instituted a strict no-recording policy, but because the audience seemed to understand that what happened in that room was meant to be experienced, not captured.

Jacob had adapted to this new reality with his characteristic quiet resilience. He still performed weekly, still introduced his songs with brief, unembellished stories about their origins, still packed up his guitar without lingering afterward. The royalty checks hadn't changed his approach to music--if anything, the financial security had freed him to experiment more, to explore themes and structures he might have considered too risky before.

On this particular Thursday, Jacob was debuting a new song he called "Shattered." The piece had emerged from observations and imagining at a diner where he'd witnessed the aftermath of a couple's argument--the man storming out, the woman sitting alone with an expression on her face of cold finality. He imagined the man months later when he sees her with another man through the same restaurant's window. The man getting a true vision what he had done and what he had lost.

Jacob settled onto his stool, adjusting the microphone as the room quieted in anticipation.

"This next one is new," he began, his voice gentle but carrying easily through the room. "It's called 'Shattered.' It's about hitting bottom--that moment when you finally see yourself clearly, and you don't much like what you see."

His fingers found the opening chords, a minor progression that created immediate tension. The melody was deceptively simple, almost conversational in its phrasing, allowing the lyrics to take center stage. Lately, Jacob had been exploring the idea of bottoms--rock bottom, emotional bottom, the place from which authentic change might begin. This song fit one way it might happen.

The story unfolded verse by verse: a self-centered man, his long-suffering girlfriend, their circular pattern of conflict and reconciliation. The chorus captured the pivotal moment when, unwittingly; the man catches a glimpse of himself and his fate through the mirror of her eyes and is shattered by the knowledge.

Jacob's voice carried the narrative with raw honesty, neither condemning nor excusing the character he'd created. The bridge shifted perspective briefly to the woman's viewpoint, adding complexity to the story, before returning to the man's profound moment of self-recognition in the final verse.

As the last note faded, The Blue Note remained silent for several heartbeats before erupting into applause. Jacob acknowledged it with a slight nod, reaching for his water bottle as Elena adjusted the stage lights.

He didn't notice the man at the back of the room, who remained perfectly still, even as those around him applauded. A man in his mid-thirties wearing a well-worn denim jacket, his face partially shadowed by a Stetson hat, his expression one of stunned recognition.

After finishing his set, Jacob was packing up his guitar when Elena approached, accompanied by the man in the Stetson.

"Jacob, someone wants to meet you," she said, her tone suggesting this wasn't just another appreciative audience member. "This is Stan Osier."

The name meant nothing to Jacob, but he nodded politely, extending his hand automatically.

"That song," Stan said without preamble, his handshake firm. "Shattered. It's..." he seemed to search for adequate words, "...it's something else. Something real."

Jacob studied the man before him. Stan Osier had weathered good looks--laugh lines around his eyes. His accent carried hints of Texas, softened by years elsewhere.

"Thanks," Jacob replied simply.

"I'm a country singer," Stan continued. "From Texas originally. Been in the business fifteen years now, and I've never heard a song that captured that moment so perfectly."

"What moment?" Jacob asked, curious despite his habitual reticence with strangers.

"Rock bottom. Seeing yourself clear for the first time." Stan's gaze was direct, unembellished. "I lived that song, almost word for word, about five years back. My marriage dead from my neglect. My career suddenly meaningless. Changed everything."

The candid admission caught Jacob off guard. He was accustomed to people responding emotionally to his music, but rarely did they offer such immediate personal disclosure.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, unsure how else to respond.

Stan shook his head. "Don't be. Best thing that ever happened to me, in the long run. Woke me up." He glanced at Jacob's guitar case. "Mind if we talk a bit? About the song?"

Jacob hesitated. His usual pattern was to leave immediately after performing, to retreat to the solitude of his apartment where he could decompress. But something about Stan's straightforward manner, his lack of pretense, made Jacob reconsider.

"There's a diner around the corner," he offered. "Open late."

Ten minutes later, they were seated in a booth at the back of Staple Street All Night Diner, mugs of coffee steaming between them. The late-hour crowd was sparse--a few truckers at the counter, a couple of nurses still in scrubs, a solitary student surrounded by textbooks.

"My career's what you might call 'almost there,'" Stan explained after they'd settled in. "Got a decent following in Nashville, regular gigs on the circuit, even opened for some bigger names. But I've never had a breakthrough song, you know? The one that really connects."

Jacob nodded, understanding the distinction. "And you think 'Shattered' could be that?"

"I know it could be," Stan replied without hesitation. "Not just for my career--though yeah, there's that. But because it says something true that needs saying. Especially in country music, where we've got all these songs about beer and trucks and girls, but not enough about the real stuff. The hard truths."

There was something refreshingly unpretentious about Stan--an authenticity that seemed to align with Jacob's own values--if expressed in a very different style. In contrast to Jacob's reserve, Stan seemed an open book; yet both appeared committed to honesty in their art.

"Would you consider letting me record it?" Stan asked directly. "I know you've got this arrangement with Lydia Summers--everyone in Nashville's talking about it, by the way. But 'Shattered' feels like a country song at its core. It's got that narrative tradition, that unflinching look at human failing."

Jacob considered the request, surprised to find himself more open to it than he might have expected. His experience with Lydia had changed his perspective on sharing his music--not dramatically, but enough that the idea of another artist interpreting his work didn't immediately trigger his protective instincts.

"I'd need to hear you sing it first," Jacob said thoughtfully, pulling out his guitar. "To see if it fits your voice."

Stan raised an eyebrow. "Here? Now?"

"Why not? Place is practically empty, and Margie's used to musicians. Her son plays in a metal band."

As if to confirm this, Margie herself appeared at their table, coffeepot in hand. "You boys planning a little late-night jam session?" she asked, refilling their mugs. "Go right ahead. Might wake up some of these zombies." She nodded toward the half-asleep truckers at the counter.

Jacob retrieved his guitar from its case. He played through "Shattered" once, singing it quietly, then handed the guitar over to Stan.

Stan took it with comfortable familiarity, his fingers finding the chords easily despite having only heard the song twice. When he sang, Jacob understood immediately why Stan had a career in music, even if he hadn't yet broken through. His voice had the worn edges of experience, a baritone with just enough rasp to convey emotion without sacrificing clarity. He instinctively adjusted the phrasing to suit his style--more direct, less introspective than Jacob's version, but no less authentic.

When Stan reached the bridge, Jacob found himself harmonizing softly, their voices blending in an unplanned but effective counterpoint. By the last verse, three of the truckers had turned on their stools to listen, and Margie had paused her wiping the counter.

As the last note faded, Margie nodded approvingly. "That's a hell of a song, boys."

Stan handed the guitar back to Jacob, a question in his eyes. "Well?"

Jacob considered what he'd just heard--not just the quality of Stan's performance, but the way the song had been transformed in his interpretation. It was still recognizably "Shattered," still carried the emotional truth of the original, but Stan had brought something new to it--a directness, a country sensibility that emphasized the narrative without sacrificing the emotional impact.

"It works," Jacob acknowledged. "You make it your own without losing what matters."

Stan's face broke into another genuine smile. "So that's a yes? You'll let me record it?"

"With conditions," Jacob replied, thinking of his arrangement with Lydia. "Same as with Lydia--songwriting credit, approval on the final recording, no pressure to do publicity."

"Done," Stan agreed immediately. "Absolutely done."

They spent the next hour discussing details--how Stan envisioned the arrangement, when he might record, what kind of release he was planning. Throughout the conversation, Jacob found himself increasingly comfortable with Stan's direct manner and clear passion for the craft of songwriting.