21

Chapter Seventeen

Jacob had been back from Nashville for three weeks when Tommy showed up at The Blue Note. He spotted his friend immediately, Tommy's tailored charcoal suit standing out among the venue's casual patrons like a peacock among sparrows. Jacob nodded a greeting from the stage, continuing his set without interruption, though he wondered what had prompted this unexpected visit.

After his last song, as he packed away his guitar, Tommy approached. "Sounding good, Jacob. That new one about Nashville--it's different. More open somehow."

Jacob secured the latches on his guitar case. "Thanks. Didn't know you were coming tonight."

"Spontaneous decision. Thought we should catch up." Tommy glanced around at the dispersing crowd. "Got time for a bite? That diner next door still open?"

Twenty minutes later, they sat in a corner booth at Margie's, coffee mugs steaming between them. Jacob had just finished recounting his Nashville experience, the studio sessions, the reunions with Jet and Lydia, the connection with Stan, the engagement of a music and entertainment attorney.

"Sounds like it was good for you," Tommy observed. "Stepping out of your routine."

Jacob nodded slightly. "Different than I expected."

"Different how?"

Jacob considered the question, searching for words to express the subtle shift in his perspective. "Thought I'd feel exposed. Uncomfortable for the whole time. But it was... not like that. The focus was on the songs, not on me."

Tommy smiled, a hint of 'I told you so' in his expression. "That's usually how it works. We build things up in our minds, make them scarier than they are." He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. "So, you've got these connections now--Stan, Jet, Lydia. A lawyer looking after your interests. Songs going into production. Royalties coming in like clockwork every quarter."

"Yes."

"Which brings us to why I wanted to talk tonight." Tommy leaned forward slightly. "Jacob, you need to buy some property. Maybe two properties. Real estate is a good investment and has significant tax implications that could benefit you, especially with your increasing income."

Jacob blinked, caught off guard by this unexpected suggestion. "Property? I have an apartment."

"You rent an apartment," Tommy corrected gently. "That's different. You're building someone else's equity, not your own."

"Never thought about owning," Jacob admitted. His concept of home had always been transient--foster homes, group facilities, a series of rented apartments. Ownership represented a permanence he'd never considered possible or necessary.

"Well, start thinking about it," Tommy advised. "Your financial situation has changed substantially. The royalties from Lydia's album alone would make a solid down payment. Add in what I project should be coming from Stan's upcoming release and Jet's new album--you're in an excellent position to invest in yourself."

Jacob sipped his coffee, processing the suggestion. "What kind of property?"

"That's the interesting question." Tommy's eyes lit up with the enthusiasm he always showed when discussing financial strategy. "You could buy locally--a condo or house here in the city. But you mentioned how comfortable you felt in Nashville, how your friends are establishing themselves there."

"You think I should buy in Nashville?" The idea seemed radical, a complete departure from the carefully structured life Jacob had maintained for years.

"Why not? Your friends are there. Your music is finding roots there. You'd have a place of your own when you visit, which I imagine will be more frequent now that you're collaborating with multiple artists." Tommy spread his hands. "I'm not suggesting you move permanently--unless you want to. Just that having a base there makes financial and practical sense."

Jacob was quiet, contemplating the implications. "Two places?"

"Eventually, maybe. A primary residence here, a second property in Nashville. But you could start with just one, see how ownership feels." Tommy smiled reassuringly. "And Jacob? I'll always be here for you--just a plane ride away if you need anything. That's what friends are for."

The conversation shifted to more specific financial details--mortgage rates, property taxes, potential areas to consider. By the time they left Margie's, Jacob had agreed to at least look at listings to explore the possibility.

What began as exploration quickly gained momentum. Rebecca connected Jacob with a real estate agent in Nashville who specialized in properties offering privacy and character--places suitable for a songwriter who valued solitude but needed proximity to the music industry.

After reviewing dozens of options remotely, Jacob flew to Nashville for a weekend of viewings. Stan drove him to each property, offering commentary and local insights. Jet and Lydia joined for several showings, each contributing perspective on neighborhoods and practicalities.

It was the last property--a small, ten-acre parcel with an old farmhouse about thirty minutes from downtown--that immediately resonated with Jacob. The house itself needed work, a century-old structure with good bones but outdated systems. But the land spoke to something deep in Jacob's soul--gently rolling pasture, a small pond, mature oak trees surrounding the house like protective sentinels, a detached barn that could be converted to a studio space.

"This one," he said simply after walking the perimeter, surprising both himself and Stan with the certainty in his voice.

The purchasing process moved quickly, guided by Tommy's financial expertise and Rebecca's legal oversight. Six months after that conversation at Margie's, Jacob stood on the porch of his first proper home, keys in hand, watching movers carry the few possessions he'd brought from his apartment--his guitars, his painting supplies, books and basic furnishings.

The renovation had been managed remotely, with Stan overseeing local contractors. Jacob had been specific about his requirements: updated electrical and plumbing systems, a modernized kitchen, but retention of the farmhouse's original character--the hardwood floors, the exposed beams, the stone fireplace. The result was a perfect balance of historic charm and practical functionality.

The barn conversion had been more extensive, transforming the structure into a combination recording studio and art space. Soundproofing, specialized lighting, storage for guitars and canvases--every detail considered and executed with the same precision Jacob applied to his songwriting and welding.

"Well?" Stan asked, joining Jacob on the porch as the movers finished. "What do you think? Now that it's all done?"

Jacob surveyed his property--the driveway curving through trees, the pond reflecting afternoon light, the distant view of rolling Tennessee hills. "It's good," he said simply. "Better than I imagined."

That evening, after the movers had gone and Stan had left with promises to return the next day with housewarming supplies, Jacob sat alone on his porch swing, watching darkness settle over his land. The concept still felt strange--

his

land,

his

house. A place that belonged to him, that couldn't be taken away or outgrown or left behind.

He'd maintained his apartment back home, unwilling to sever that connection completely. His job at the fabrication shop remained, though he'd arranged a flexible schedule that allowed for extended time in Nashville when needed for recording sessions or collaborations. He still played at The Blue Note when in town, still busked at the farmer's market on Saturday mornings.

But now he had this too--this anchor, this manifestation of what his music had created. Not just songs traveling out into the world, but something solid returning: security, stability, a place designed around his needs and preferences.

Inside, his guitar rested against the living room wall beside the stone fireplace. His easel stood by the window that captured the best morning light. The kitchen contained only the essentials, arranged with the same orderly precision he'd always maintained in his small apartment.

Yet everything felt different. The surrounding space wasn't borrowed or temporary. The walls could be painted without permission. The garden could be planted with perennials that would return year after year. Time here wasn't counted in lease agreements but in seasons, in the growth of trees, in the gradual accumulation of memories.

As night deepened, Jacob reached for the notebook he'd carried in his pocket--his constant companion for years. He began to write, words flowing as they always did from observation and reflection. But these words weren't about others this time; they were about himself, about transition, about the curious sensation of roots beginning to form after a lifetime of impermanence.

The song that emerged spoke of foundations being laid, of walls that sheltered without confining, of doors that opened both ways. It acknowledged fear without surrendering to it, and recognized the risk of attachment while affirming its worth. It was, perhaps, the most personal composition he'd ever created--a reflection not of what he witnessed in others but of what he was finally allowing himself to experience.

In the months that followed, Jacob established a new rhythm to his life--dividing time between his city apartment and his Nashville farm, between his welding work and his expanding musical collaborations. The farmhouse gradually accumulated the markers of habitation--worn paths from door to barn, favorite mugs in kitchen cupboards, a vegetable garden taking shape behind the kitchen.

His musical relationships deepened as well. Stan became a regular visitor, often staying in the guest room when they were working on new material. Jet and Lydia collaborated with him in the barn studio, their different styles complementing his songwriting in ways that continued to surprise him. New connections formed too--other Nashville musicians who respected his privacy while valuing his talent, who came to work and often stayed to share meals on the wide porch.

Tommy visited quarterly, combining financial check-ins with genuine friendship. During one such visit, as they walked the property perimeter, Tommy asked the question that had been on his mind.

"So was I right? About buying this place?"

Jacob paused under one of the old oaks, looking back at the farmhouse silhouetted against the evening sky. Light glowed from the windows; music drifted from the barn where Stan was working on a new arrangement. The scene conveyed a sense of belonging that Jacob had never expected to find.

"You were right," he acknowledged quietly. "Didn't know I needed roots until I had them."

Tommy smiled, nodding in satisfaction. "That's often how it works with the most important things, Jacob. We don't know we need them until they're there. Then we can't imagine life without them."

As they completed their circuit of the property, returning to the warmth and light of the farmhouse, Jacob reflected on the journey that had brought him here. From the scarred boy in group homes to the solitary observer at the market corner. From the reluctant performer at The Blue Note to the songwriter whose work now traveled far beyond his own experience. From rented rooms to this place--this home--that both anchored him and expanded his horizons.

His scars remained visible reminders of a painful past. But they no longer defined his boundaries. The walls he had built for protection had not been demolished but thoughtfully redesigned--with windows that allowed light in, doors that welcomed chosen connections, foundations strong enough to support growth.

Jacob Whitney, the observer who had spent his life documenting others' stories from the outside, was finally writing himself into the narrative--not as a central character demanding attention, but as a steady presence, rooted and reaching simultaneously. A songwriter finding his own song, note by careful note, in harmony with voices he had once never imagined would know his name.

Chapter Eighteen

In the end, Jacob moved to Nashville permanently. The decision came gradually, almost imperceptibly, as he spent more time at the farmhouse than his city apartment. He quit his welding job. What began as week-long visits extended to month-long stays until eventually he realized he hadn't been "home" in over three months.

Elena at The Blue Note hosted a quiet farewell performance, the regulars filling the venue to capacity, their applause carrying a note of genuine loss when Jacob played his final song.

"You'll visit, right?" she asked quietly as he packed up his guitar that night.

"When I can," he'd promised, surprised by his own reluctance to leave the place that had first pushed him beyond his comfort zone.

His Nashville house gradually evolved into a true home. Jacob added personal touches gradually: bookshelves built into the living room wall, a workshop behind the barn where he could maintain his welding skills, a hammock strung between two old oaks where he often composed on summer evenings.

He came to know his neighbors slowly, in his own careful way. To his east lived a couple who were big in the arts community--Sara and Jane Parker, owners of two prestigious galleries in downtown Nashville. To his west was a large animal veterinarian named David Wilson with what he called a "passel of youngins"--five children ranging from four to fourteen years old, being raised by David and his wife Carol after the death of Carol's sister had added two nieces to their already bustling household.

The Wilson children were all curious about their new neighbor, particularly after discovering he played guitar. They would show up at random times, appearing at the edge of his property like woodland creatures--cautious but hopeful, drawn by the music that often drifted from his porch or barn studio.

Jacob, who had never spent significant time around children, found their direct curiosity refreshing. Unlike adults who pretended not to notice his scars or stared when they thought he wasn't looking, the Wilson children had simply asked.

"What happened to your face, Mister Jake?" seven-year-old Michael had inquired during their second encounter.

"Dog attack when I was a kid," Jacob had answered plainly.

Michael had nodded solemnly. "Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore."

"Can you still smile?"

In response, Jacob had offered a small but genuine smile, surprising himself with how easily it came.

"Cool," Michael had declared, then immediately changed subjects. "Do you know any songs about dinosaurs?"

After that exchange, the Wilson children became regular visitors, particularly on weekend afternoons. Jacob established loose boundaries--they knew to check if he was working in the studio before interrupting, understood that sometimes he needed solitude, recognized when he was open to company. In return, he found himself looking forward to their visits, to their unfiltered enthusiasm for music, to the simple joy they took in sing-a-longs on the porch steps.

Carol Wilson had apologized initially for their intrusions. "They're drawn to you like moths to a flame, Mr. Whitney. I can keep them home if they're bothering you."

"They're fine," Jacob had assured her, surprising himself with how much he meant it. "They're... refreshingly honest."

It was a warm Sunday afternoon in late spring when Sara and Jane Parker finally made their approach. Jacob was on his porch, guitar across his lap, working through what he called "The Lover's Lament", a song about missing someone that had come to him after witnessing a young couple part at the airport, him going off to military deployment, her trying to maintain composure as they said goodbye.

The song was melancholy but hopeful, exploring the ache of separation when reuniting remains uncertain. As he refined the bridge, searching for the right chord progression to support the emotional shift, he noticed two women walking up his driveway, one carrying what appeared to be a cake.

Jacob set his guitar aside as they approached the porch steps. One was tall and lean with short salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in crisp linen pants and a tailored shirt; the other shorter, rounder, with a mass of red curls and a flowing floral dress.

"Hope we're not interrupting," the taller one called out. "We're your neighbors to the east. Thought it was past time we properly introduced ourselves."

Jacob stood, nodding a greeting. "Jacob Whitney."

"Sara Parker," the taller woman said, extending her hand. "And this is my wife, Jane. We're calling ourselves nosy Parkers today, showing up uninvited, but we brought along a bribe." She nodded toward the cake in Jane's hands.

"Carrot cake," Jane explained with a warm smile. "Homemade. Sara's mother's recipe, but my execution because she's hopeless in the kitchen."

"Completely hopeless," Sara agreed cheerfully. "But I make up for it by mixing excellent cocktails."

There was something disarming about their easy banter, their straightforward approach. Jacob invited them in for coffee, a gesture that would have been unthinkable months earlier.

The farmhouse kitchen had become one of Jacob's favorite spaces--simple but functional, with large windows overlooking the backyard and the pond beyond. He prepared coffee while Jane set the cake on the counter. They both glanced around with undisguised curiosity.

"You've done wonders with this place," she commented. "We watched the renovation from afar. This was the old Mercer property, right? Stood empty for years before you bought it."

Jacob nodded, setting mugs on the small kitchen table. "Needed work. But good bones."

"The best kind of project," Jane agreed, accepting the seat he offered. "Something with history, with character. That's why we bought our place too--that 1920s farmhouse had stories to tell."

As they settled around the table with coffee and generous slices of the carrot cake (which proved excellent), the conversation flowed more easily than Jacob had expected. Sara and Jane were naturally engaging without being intrusive, sharing information about the area, offering recommendations for local services, mentioning their galleries in passing without making it the focus.

"We've heard you playing from across the way," Jane mentioned. "That song just now--it was beautiful. So wistful."

"New piece," Jacob explained. "Still working on it."

"You play professionally?" Sara inquired, sipping her coffee.

"I write. For other artists, mostly."

Jane's eyes widened slightly. "Wait--are you

that

Jacob Whitney? The songwriter working with Lydia Summers and Stanley Osier?"

Jacob nodded, unused to being recognized by name rather than appearance.

"Well, I'll be damned," Sara exclaimed. "The music community's been buzzing about you for months. The mysterious songwriter who never does interviews. And here you are, right next door."

"Small world," Jane added with a smile. "Nashville's like that sometimes."

As they finished their cake, Jacob found himself oddly comfortable with these women who approached life with such straightforward enthusiasm. When Sara asked if she might use his bathroom before they headed home, he directed her down the hallway without his usual concern about people moving through his private space.

It was pure coincidence that Sara took a wrong turn on her return, passing the open door to what Jacob called his art room. The space had originally been a small bedroom, now converted to house his paintings and sketches--dozens of canvases stacked against walls, sketchbooks filled with studies, works in progress on easels. He rarely showed this part of his creative life to anyone, keeping it separate from his more public musical endeavors.