Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Heather was a daddy’s girl, even if her mom was a famous musician and songwriter who was quickly becoming a household name.
“Let’s have at least three more,” I said as Sarah sat next to Heather’s booster seat.
“Three more what?” she asked, focusing on unwrapping the sandwiches.
“Kids,” I said, checking the lid on the blue sippy cup and then handing it to Heather.
Sarah shot me an unblinking expression, lips parted. “Uh … are we moving from a part-time nanny to a full-time nanny?”
“Heck no. We’ve got this.”
She chuckled. “We?”
“Yes. You’ll work your butt off being the beloved Sunday Morning, and I’ll take care of the kids.”
“You’re my manager,” she said before taking a bite of her sandwich.
“I can do both.”
She slowly chewed on more than just her sandwich, eyeing me the whole time as if I would break and say, “Just kidding!”
I wasn’t kidding.
“Our parents will help. Our moms will fight over who gets to help.”
She grinned, glancing up at the screen where we were singing together, each with a guitar in our hands. “I’ll think about it,” she murmured.
That was a yes, even if she wanted to pretend that she needed time to think.
Ten years earlier, I left Anakin with Sarah’s sisters in a more tearful goodbye than I offered my parents. Then I bought us an old two-bedroom home in Nashville—a fixer-upper.
She wrote songs; I remodeled the bathroom and sanded the deck.
She made dinner, and I washed the dishes.
I was early to bed and early to rise.
She was up until the wee hours writing and ready to sleep until noon most days.
All I had to do was look at her, and she started removing her clothes. We made love the way we played music together—with an undying passion.
I took breaks from tending bar with Lenny to steal the stage, always singing Hall & Oates’ “Sara Smile.” But at home, I serenaded her with Sinatra’s “Sunday.”
I loved the memories we’d made.
After we finished our sandwiches, Sarah carried Heather to the back of the bus and read her a story before tucking her into bed while I took a shower.
“Sorry. I’m already done,” I said with a grin when Sarah stepped into the bathroom.
She held a finger to her lips to silence me as she shut the door behind her.
“The bathroom on this tour bus wasn’t built for two,” I whispered.
She untied the bodice of her sundress and let it pool at her feet while I dried my hair. My beautiful Sunday Morning slid her arms around my waist and gazed up at me in nothing but her skimpy underwear.
“And yet, we always seem to fit.” She grinned.
I mirrored her smile. We fit perfectly. I knew it the day I saw her in church when the rest of the world thought she was going to marry my brother.
“Happy anniversary, baby,” I said.
She bit her lower lip to suppress her giggle. We had two anniversaries: one from our first wedding at the Graceland Wedding Chapel (which her parents knew nothing about) and the other at her father’s church.
“Speaking of babies,” she whispered over my chest while kissing her way to my neck. “Let’s make another one.”
She didn’t have to say it twice. I slipped my hand into the back of her underwear and kissed her.
Our love hurt a lot of people in the beginning, but I never felt an ounce of regret. Only gratitude.
Life had a way of working itself out.
Three days later, Sunday Morning took the stage for her second concert as the headliner.
Her parents had been at the Kansas City concert, but mine were front and center with me for the Tulsa concert—along with Matty and his wife.
Sarah sang her list with me joining her for our two songs, but she saved her only cover song for the last one. And I knew why she changed the order. The tears would be too overwhelming.
The lights dimmed with nothing more than a single spotlight on her, and the crowd delivered a chilling silence.
“It’s been ten years to the day,” she said into the mic before taking a breath to keep her composure, “since my best friend took her last breath.” She strummed the guitar. “I promised to carry her with me forever.” Her fingers continued caressing the strings. “I’ve held her through my failures, heartbreaks, successes, falling in love, getting married, and now I carry her in my daughter’s name. While I love to play my own songs, I will always make an exception because this was Heather’s favorite song. It’s called ‘Landslide.’”
I stepped as close to the stage as possible so she could see me and the Cadbury egg that I always unwrapped to make her smile instead of cry during Heather’s song. But as I suspected, she didn’t look at me that night while she sang.
She didn’t look at anyone.