Jacob's Story Ch. 07-10

Chapter Seven

The days passed with Jacob clinging carefully to his routines--morning guitar practice, exercise, work, evening painting--but with one notable difference. In quiet moments, his mind kept returning to the songs he'd shared with Jet, imagining how her voice might transform them. At night, he found himself jotting down additional notes, alternative bridges, counter-melodies that might complement her interpretations.

Wednesday arrived with a nervous energy that followed him throughout the day. At the fab shop, Jacob approached his supervisor during the morning break, a request he'd been rehearsing in his mind.

"George," he said, standing straighter than usual. "I was wondering if I could leave an hour early today. I've got a... music thing."

Gaines, a barrel-chested man with thirty years of welding experience etched into the lines around his eyes, looked surprised. In the two years Jacob had worked there, he had never been late, never missed a day, never asked for special accommodation.

"A music thing, huh?" Gaines considered him for a moment. "You got all the repairs on the Billings order done?"

"Yes, sir. And I've already prepped tomorrow's materials."

Gaines nodded slowly. "Alright then." He turned to head back to his office, then paused. "This music thing--that what you do on weekends down at the market?"

Jacob blinked, surprised. "You know about that?"

"Course I do. My wife drags me there most Saturdays." Gaines shrugged. "You're good. Different from what I usually listen to, but good."

The unexpected compliment stayed with Jacob throughout the day, a reminder of how little he knew about his coworkers' perceptions of him. Unbeknownst to him, he was considered a top hand. The other welders appreciated his precision, his focus, his willingness to learn. He was always eager to improve, never made the same mistake twice, and worked hard for the full eight hours he was there. His scars were simply part of him, like Martinez's tattoos or Dawson's limp--noted but irrelevant to the quality of his work.

At quarter past five, Jacob left the shop, stopping at home only long enough to shower away the day's dust and change into clean clothes. He gathered his guitar, his notebook and the cassette recordings, then headed for the community college campus.

The arts building was smaller than he'd expected, a two-story brick structure set apart from the main campus. Student artwork and concert announcements livened the walls. Jacob followed Jet's directions, finding Practice Room C at the end of a quiet hallway.

The room itself was modest but functional, with thick acoustic panels on the walls, a baby grand piano dominating one corner and various music stands scattered about. A small recording setup occupied a table against one wall: a cassette deck, microphones and a basic mixer.

Jet was already there, seated at the piano, working through what Jacob recognized as the bridge from "Hidden Light," one of the songs he'd shared. She'd changed it slightly, adding jazz-influenced chord extensions that gave the melody a richer, more complex feel.

When she saw him in the doorway, she stopped playing and smiled. "Right on time," she said, gesturing for him to enter. "What do you think of that variation?"

Jacob set down his guitar case and stepped closer to the piano. "Play it again?"

She did, this time singing softly along with the melody. Her voice brought the passage to life in a way his rough recording hadn't captured, finding emotional nuances in the lyrics that he'd written but never fully expressed.

"That's..." he searched for the right word, "... a lot better than what I wrote."

"Different," Jet corrected. "Not better. Just a different interpretation."

For all his street smarts, Jacob was curiously innocent when it came to social interactions. Years of people avoiding his gaze had left him with little practice in the ordinary give-and-take of friendship. He didn't want to make a mistake with Jet--not because he harbored romantic notions, but because he recognized her talent and genuinely wanted a friend who understood his music.

"I brought my notebook," he said, pulling it from his bag. "Had some ideas about the arrangement--places where we could add harmonies, maybe an instrumental break after the second chorus."

Jet's eyes lit up. "I've been thinking about harmonies, too." She patted the piano bench beside her. "Show me what you're thinking."

Jacob hesitated only briefly before sitting at the edge of the bench, leaving an appropriate space between them. He opened his notebook to the relevant page, where he'd sketched out a notation for vocal harmonies that would complement the main melody.

"Here," he said, pointing to a particular passage. "If you take the melody, I could come in underneath with this harmony line. Kind of creates a conversation between the voices."

Jet studied his notes, humming the line softly. "That works," she said, nodding. "And here--" she played a chord with her left hand, "--if I add this underneath while we're singing, it ties the whole section together."

They worked like this for over an hour, moving between the piano and Jacob's guitar, piecing together arrangements for the three songs. Jet's formal musical training complemented Jacob's intuitive approach; where he sometimes struggled to articulate why a particular change felt right, she could explain it in terms of music theory. Where she occasionally over thought a section, he could pull it back to its emotional core.

"You know what these songs need?" Jet said eventually, stepping back from the piano. "Percussion. Nothing heavy--maybe just brushes on a snare, light cymbal work."

Jacob nodded thoughtfully. "I can hear that. Especially on the third song."

"I know a guy," Jet offered. "Marcus. Plays drums for the jazz ensemble here. He's got a light touch, knows when to lay back."

The casual suggestion of bringing in a third person made Jacob tense slightly. "Another person?"

Jet caught his hesitation. "Just for recording," she clarified. "Not for the working sessions. These sessions--" she gestured between them, "--this is our space to figure things out."

"Our space," Jacob repeated, the phrase feeling foreign but not unwelcome.

"Unless you'd rather keep it just us all the way through," Jet added, watching him carefully. "No pressure either way."

Jacob considered it, weighing his discomfort with meeting someone new against what the songs truly needed. "Let's see how the arrangements develop," he said finally. "If they need percussion, then... yeah. We can talk to your friend."

Jet's smile suggested she recognized the concession for what it was--a small step toward expanding his comfort zone. "Fair enough," she said. "Ready to actually record a rough version of 'Hidden Light'? See how our arrangement works all the way through?"

They positioned themselves near the microphones, Jacob with his guitar, Jet at the piano. The first take was halting, both of them too self-conscious about the recording. The second was better, but still disjointed.

"We're over thinking it," Jet said, running a hand through her hair in frustration. "Let's just play it like we did earlier--no pressure, just feeling it out."

"Forget the recording?" Jacob suggested.

"No, let it run. But let's pretend it's not there. Just you and me, working through the song."

Jacob nodded, took a deep breath, and began the intro again. This time, when Jet's voice joined his guitar, something clicked. Her interpretation of his lyrics brought out meanings he hadn't fully realized were there. When he added his harmony in the chorus, their voices blended in a way that created something greater than either alone.

By the time they reached the end, both had forgotten the recording entirely, lost in the story the song was telling. As the last note faded, the practice room fell silent except for the soft hiss of the cassette tape still rolling.

"That," Jet said quietly, "is what collaboration feels like."

Jacob nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He'd never experienced music quite that way before--as a conversation rather than a monologue, as something alive and evolving between two people.

"We should listen to it back," he said finally, setting his guitar aside.

They huddled around the cassette deck, shoulders almost touching as Jet rewound the tape and pressed play. As their recorded voices filled the room, Jacob studied their performance with his usual critical ear--noting where the tempo wavered slightly, where his harmony came in a beat too late--but also hearing the undeniable spark that had emerged.

"It needs work," he said when the recording ended.

"Of course it does," Jet agreed. "That's just the skeleton. But it's a good skeleton."

Jacob checked his watch, surprised to find it was already past nine. "I should probably head out," he said reluctantly. "Early start tomorrow."

As they packed up their instruments and notes, Jacob felt an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment--different from the satisfaction of completing a perfect weld or finishing a painting. This was creativity shared, a bridge built not just from him to an anonymous audience, but directly to another person who understood what he was trying to express.

"Same time next week?" Jet asked as they stepped into the hallway.

"I could do Monday too," Jacob found himself offering. "If you're free."

Jet's smile widened slightly. "Monday works. And maybe this weekend I could stop by the market again, hear how you're developing that new song you were working on."

"I'd like that," Jacob said, surprised to find he genuinely meant it.

As they parted ways in the parking lot--Jet to her small Honda, Jacob to catch the bus back to his apartment--he realized something had shifted. The carefully constructed routine of his life, built to protect him from rejection and disappointment, now had a deliberate opening. A space where something new could grow, not despite his scars but alongside them.

The thought followed him home, through his evening routine, and into his prayers before sleep. "Thank you," he whispered into the darkness, "for the new melodies I couldn't have found alone.

Chapter Eight

It was during their third session in the practice room that Jacob realized he had made a mistake. He had given her the songs not to sing but to own. The realization came as he watched Jet work through an arrangement of "Hidden Light," changing both melody and lyrics with confident ease. The songs were becoming hers in a way he hadn't anticipated.

As he sat quietly, guitar across his lap, a familiar tightness formed in his chest. His songs were deeply personal--fragments of his soul carefully arranged into melody and verse. Giving them away felt like surrendering pieces of himself. Even the thought of selling his work made him ill, which was why he'd never pursued publishing despite his prolific output.

"What do you think about changing this line?" Jet asked, turning to him with bright eyes. "'The shadows hold no fear for me' could be 'The shadows can't exist in me.' Gets to the same idea but feels more active, you know?"

Jacob nodded automatically, though something must have shown in his expression.

"Or we could keep it as is," Jet added quickly. "They're your songs, after all."

"That's just it," Jacob mumbled. "They're not, are they? Not anymore."

Jet's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I gave them to you," he clarified. "Not just to sing. To have."

Understanding dawned on her face. "Jacob, I never meant to take ownership. I thought we were collaborating, not--"

"It's okay," he interrupted, deciding in that moment. "I knew what I was doing, even if I didn't fully understand what it would feel like." He faced up to it and let them go, his voice steadier than he expected. "Those three songs are yours now. To record, to perform, to change. Whatever you want to do with them."

"But--"

"I gave them freely," Jacob insisted. "And I'll help finish the arrangements. But I need to be clear about this--going forward, anything else we work on together stays... shared. These three are different."

Jet studied him for a long moment. "You're sure?"

Jacob nodded. "I'm sure."

As was his usual mode, he faced his mistake, took responsibility, and then let it go. The collaboration was reward enough--the experience of creating with someone who understood his musical language, who could take his ideas and expand them in ways he never would have considered. He would simply be more careful with boundaries in the future.

Over the next three weeks, they met twice weekly, polishing the songs until they shone like diamonds. Jacob brought his perfectionism to the process, insisting on reworking sections until they flowed naturally, until each song felt complete and inevitable. Jet introduced Marcus, the drummer, during their fifth session. To Jacob's surprise, the addition of a third person didn't disrupt their dynamic--Marcus was quiet, intuitive, and focused entirely on serving the songs.

Their final recording session took place on a Sunday at a small studio Jet knew, where they laid down proper demos of all three songs. The owner, an old jazz musician named Ray who owed Jet a favor, handled the mixing with a delicate touch that preserved the emotional core of each piece.

"These are special," Ray told them when they gathered to hear the final mixes. "Don't know what you kids plan to do with them, but they deserve to be heard."

Two days later, Jet called Jacob, her voice vibrating with excitement.

"You're not going to believe this," she said without preamble. "Ray sent the demos to this producer he knows at Meridian Records. They want to hear more. They're talking about a development deal, Jacob. For me. For the songs."

Jacob sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest. "That's amazing, Jet. You deserve it."

"I couldn't have done it without you," she said. "Your songs--"

"Our arrangements," he corrected gently. "But your interpretations. Your voice."

"We should celebrate," she insisted. "Tomorrow night? That little place on Fourth Street with the good pasta?"

Jacob agreed, surprising himself with his own genuine enthusiasm.

The restaurant was more upscale than Jacob usually frequented, but the dim lighting and corner booth made him feel less exposed than he'd feared. Jet arrived in a vintage dress that sparkled subtly under the restaurant lights, her usual composure giving way to barely contained excitement.

"I brought something," she said, reaching into her bag as they waited for their meals. She passed him an envelope. "Open it."

Inside was a contract, meticulously drafted, assigning him co-writing credit on all three songs, along with a percentage of any future royalties. "I know you said they're mine," Jet explained, "but this makes it official--and fair. If anything ever comes from these songs, you'll be properly compensated."

Jacob stared at the document, touched by her integrity. "You didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did," she said simply. "That's how this works--how it should work. Partners respect each other's contributions."

They signed the contract over dessert, Jacob's scarred hand sliding across the paper while Jet held it steady. Something about the ritual felt significant--not just the legal recognition, but the acknowledgment of what they'd created together.

The weeks that followed were a whirlwind--for Jet. She met with producers, lawyers, A&R representatives. Jacob returned to his routine--welding by day, painting by evening, busking on weekends. She called occasionally with updates, her excitement palpable even through the phone line. Once, she invited him to sit in on a meeting with the producers, but he declined politely, knowing his scarred face would only distract from their focus on Jet and her talent.

When the contract came--a real recording contract from Meridian Records--Jet insisted on showing it to him. They met at Riverbank Coffee, the place seeming smaller somehow, less significant against the backdrop of her expanding future.

"They love the songs," she told him, unable to stop smiling. "Especially 'Hidden Light.' They think it could be the single."

Jacob nodded, genuinely pleased for her. "I'm not surprised. It always was the strongest."

"There's one more thing," Jet said, her expression growing more serious. "The label wants me to come to Chicago. That's where their main studio is. They're talking about starting recording next month."

"Chicago," Jacob repeated, the word falling between them like a stone in still water. "That's... a big move."

"It is," Jet agreed. "But it's the opportunity I've been working toward for years. The chance to record professionally, to put my music out into the world."

"You should take it," Jacob said without hesitation. "You have to take it."

"I know," she admitted. "I already said yes. I leave in two weeks."

They spent those two weeks meeting when they could--not to work on music, but simply to cement their brief friendship before geography pulled it apart. Jet came to the farmer's market on his final Saturday before her departure, listening to his set from her now-familiar spot at the edge of the crowd. The elderly woman was there too, as always, and Jacob wondered if she would still visit when her songs eventually played on the radio.

Their goodbye was brief, neither of them comfortable with prolonged emotion. Jet hugged him quickly outside The Blue Note after her farewell performance, pressing a package into his hands.

"Don't open it until I'm gone," she instructed. "And Jacob? Thank you. For everything."

Then she was walking away, her silhouette receding into the night, bound for a future bright with possibility while he remained in place, anchored by choice and circumstance.

The package contained a portable cassette recorder--newer and better than his old one--along with blank tapes and a note: "Keep making music. Keep sharing it. Someone is always listening."

Jacob placed it carefully beside his bed, a tangible reminder of their brief collaboration. Then he got up the next morning at dawn as always, made his coffee black, played his guitar for precisely one hour, completed his exercise routine, and went to work.

He returned to his routine seamlessly, as if the weeks with Jet had been a detour rather than a new direction. Yet small changes persisted--he spoke more at work, accepting Martinez's long-standing invitation to join the crew for Friday beers once a month.

Six months later, "Hidden Light" began playing on local radio stations. Jacob heard it first while welding, the shop's radio tuned as always to the adult contemporary station that served as inoffensive background noise. The opening notes caught his attention immediately. Jet's voice had been polished by professional production, the arrangement subtly altered to appeal to mainstream listeners.

One of his coworkers noticed his sudden stillness, MIG gun suspended mid-weld.

"You okay, Whitney?" Dawson called over.

Jacob resumed welding, the white glare reflecting in his hood. "Fine," he replied. "Just like this song."

In the months that followed, he received occasional royalty checks--modest sums that he deposited without fanfare. Once, a postcard arrived from Chicago, showing the city skyline at night. On the back, in Jet's distinctive handwriting: "Still singing our songs. Still grateful. Still listening."

Jacob pinned it above his easel, next to his sketches of market-goers and city scenes. Then he opened his notebook to a blank page and began making notes for another melody.

Chapter Nine

Eight months after Jet's departure, Jacob's life had found a new rhythm. His days still followed their careful structure--work, home, art, music--but The Blue Note had become a fixed point in his weekly routine. Elena had offered him a regular Thursday night slot after his third open mic appearance, impressed by both his growing stage presence and the loyal audience he was attracting

Turned out that his time with Jet was like casting bread upon the water. While Jacob remained in his small city, practicing his craft and slowly expanding his comfort zone, Jet was making waves in Chicago. Her debut LP, featuring "Hidden Light", had garnered critical acclaim and modest commercial success. She'd begun touring as an opening act for more established artists, her distinctive voice and thoughtful lyrics finding an audience beyond what either of them had imagined.

What Jacob didn't know was that in green rooms and industry gatherings, Jet went on and on to the industry people she met about Jacob's book of songs. "This guy back home," she'd tell producers, managers, fellow musicians, "has notebooks full of material that would make most songwriters weep. And he just keeps them to himself, plays them at a farmer's market on weekends."

At first, people nodded politely, accustomed to musicians hyping their hometown heroes. But as Jet's own star rose, her persistent advocacy gained credibility. Some began to wonder about this scarred songwriter she described with such reverence.

One such person was Lydia Summers, the lead vocalist of the chart-topping rock band Arclight. She had been looking for a way out of her band and into a solo career for nearly a year. Creative differences with the band, coupled with exhaustion from their relentless touring schedule, had left her seeking a new musical direction--something more authentic, less commercially calculated. Backstage at a festival where they both performed, she met Jet and was struck by the emotional honesty of her songs.

"Who wrote 'Hidden Light'?" Lydia had asked after Jet's set.

"Co-written," Jet had corrected. "With a friend back home. Jacob Whitney."

The name meant nothing to Lydia, but the song had stayed with her. Three weeks later, during a rare break between tour legs, she'd tracked down Jet again.

"That songwriter you mentioned," Lydia had said without preamble. "Jacob Whitney. Does he have more like 'Hidden Light'?"

"Lots more. Notebooks full," Jet had replied without hesitation. "He plays Thursday nights at a place called The Blue Note."

Which is how, on a chilly fall evening, a rock superstar in dark sunglasses and an over-sized coat slipped into The Blue Note just before one of Jacob's performances. The bar was packed, which was becoming the norm when word got out he was performing. These days, Jacob was a valued regular, his Thursday night sets drawing listeners who came specifically to hear him rather than just patrons who happened to be there.

By dint of effort, he had turned himself into a pro. The nervous, hesitant performer of his first open mic night had evolved into someone with genuine stage presence. He'd learned to tune his guitar with casual confidence while maintaining conversation with the audience. He'd developed a repertoire of stories to introduce his songs, brief narratives that provided context without over sharing. His scarred face was still the first thing people noticed, but increasingly, it was his music that they remembered.

As Jacob settled onto his stool that night, adjusting the microphone to his preferred height, he remained unaware of the industry powerhouse sitting in the shadows at the back of the room. He was focused instead on the set he'd planned, particularly the new song he'd been refining for weeks.

"Evening, everyone," he began, his voice having found its public register--warm but slightly reserved, inviting without being overly familiar. "Thanks for coming out tonight."

He began with two familiar compositions that the regular audience expected, creating a comfortable atmosphere before venturing into newer territory. His fingers moved deftly across the strings, his voice finding the emotional core of each piece. Between songs, he acknowledged the crowd with brief nods, still uncomfortable with extended eye contact but no longer avoiding the connection entirely.

Then, after a sip of water and a moment to gather himself, Jacob leaned slightly closer to the microphone.

"This next one is new," he said, his voice quieter, drawing the audience in. "It came to me after reading an obituary in the Sunday paper--a man who'd died after sixty-two years of marriage. The notice was placed by his wife, just a few simple lines about a lifetime together. I couldn't stop thinking about her, about what the next Sunday would feel like for her. I call it 'Lonely Sundays.'"

His fingers found the opening chord, a minor seventh that hung in the air like a question without an answer. The melody that followed was deceptively simple, almost hymn-like in its dignified progression. When Jacob sang, his voice carried a weathered wisdom beyond his years:

"First light through the curtains

The same as yesterday

the pillow beside you is cold where he used to lay

Coffee for one now

The paper unshared

Crossword puzzles and silence

where laughter once aired..."

The chorus rose with unexpected hope, Jacob's voice finding strength as it climbed:

"These lonely Sundays

They stretch out like roads

Each one, a step forward

Each one, a step home

To where you'll meet again

When your journey's complete

'Til then, you'll find ways

To bear these lonely Sundays..."

It was a piece about healing from loss, about finding meaning in continued existence when half of one's world had vanished. Jacob sang it with restrained emotion, avoiding melodrama in favor of honest delivery. The final verse imagined the widow finding small rituals to honor her husband's memory--planting his favorite flowers, making his special pancake recipe, telling his stories to grandchildren so they wouldn't forget.

As the last note faded, The Blue Note remained silent for several heartbeats before erupting into applause. Jacob lowered his head slightly, still uncomfortable with direct appreciation, but allowed himself a small smile of acknowledgment.

Near the bar, Elena wiped a tear from her cheek before resuming her professional demeanor. In the back corner, Lydia Summers sat perfectly still, sunglasses removed, her expression a mixture of surprise and recognition.

Jacob continued his set, unaware of the impact his song had made on the industry veteran. He played for another forty minutes; the audience responding with growing enthusiasm as the night progressed. When he finally thanked them and stepped off the small stage, several regulars approached with compliments about the new material.

He was carefully packing his guitar away when Elena appeared at his side, looking slightly flustered--an unusual state for the typically composed bar owner.

"Someone wants to meet you," she breathed. "Someone important."

Jacob felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the instinctive wariness of unfamiliar social situations. "Important how?"

Elena glanced over her shoulder toward a booth in the back. "Music industry important. Like, incredibly important. Lydia Summers important."

Jacob followed her gaze, recognizing with a jolt the woman sitting alone in the booth. Everyone who owned a radio knew Lydia Summers--lead vocalist of Arclight, winner of multiple Grammy awards, rock star in the truest sense. What he couldn't fathom was why she would want to meet him.

"She's been here the whole time?" he asked, suddenly self-conscious of every note he'd played.

Elena nodded. "Came in right before you started. Hasn't taken her eyes off the stage once."

Jacob hesitated, instinctively touching the most prominent scar on his cheek.

"What does she want?"

"Only one way to find out," Elena replied, gently taking his guitar case from his hand. "I'll keep this safe behind the bar. Go talk to her."

The walk to Lydia's booth felt longer than his daily commute. Jacob was acutely aware of the sidelong glances from other patrons, the whispers as people recognized the rock star in their midst. He kept his eyes fixed on the table, his posture rigid with tension.

Lydia stood as he approached, extending her hand with casual confidence. "Jacob Whitney. I'm Lydia Summers."

"I know," he said, accepting her handshake briefly before letting go. "I mean--everyone knows who you are."

She gestured for him to sit opposite her. "And not enough people know who you are. Yet."

Jacob slid into the booth, his discomfort evident. "I don't understand."

"Jet Turner," Lydia said simply. "She's been telling anyone who'll listen about you and your songs. Normally I'd ignore that kind of talk--musicians are always hyping their friends. But when I heard 'Hidden Light,' and I knew she wasn't exaggerating."

Jacob remained silent, unsure how to respond to praise from someone of her fame.

"I came tonight to see if the rest of your material was as good," Lydia continued, leaning forward slightly. "It's better. Especially that new one--'Lonely Sundays.' That song is extraordinary."

"Thank you," Jacob managed, genuinely appreciative but increasingly confused about the purpose of this conversation.

Lydia studied him for a moment, then seemed to make a decision. "I'll get to the point. I'm leaving Arclight. Contract's fulfilled after this tour. I'm going solo, and I need material for my first independent album." She paused, letting her words register. "I want to record 'Lonely Sundays.' And I want to hear what else you've got."

The directness of her proposal caught Jacob off guard. He thought of his notebooks filled with songs, of the compositions he'd been carefully crafting and protecting since his experience with Jet. He thought of Lydia's massive platform, of millions of listeners who might hear his words, his melodies.

"I don't sell my songs," he said finally, the words coming out more firmly than he'd intended.

Rather than looking offended, Lydia seemed intrigued. "Jet mentioned you might say that. She said you're protective of your work. I respect that." She reached into her bag and pulled out a business card, sliding it across the table. "I'm not asking you to sell your songs. I'm asking if you'd consider a collaboration--proper co-writing credits, creative control over the final versions, fair royalty splits. Everything above board."

Jacob looked at the card but didn't take it. "Why me? You could work with any songwriter in the industry."

"Because industry songwriters give me industry songs," Lydia replied without hesitation. "Formulaic, focus-grouped tracks designed to check marketing boxes. Your songs are alive. They're honest. That's what I want for this album--something real."

In the silence that followed, Jacob could hear the ambient sounds of The Blue Note--glasses clinking at the bar, quiet conversations, the soft jazz playing between live sets. He thought about Jet, about how their brief collaboration had expanded his understanding of what his music could be, of how it could reach beyond the boundaries he'd established.

"I'd need to think about it," he said finally.

Lydia nodded, seeming to have expected this response. "Take your time. My number's on the card. But I will say this--" she paused, making sure she had his full attention, "art isn't meant to stay hidden. Not songs like yours."

As she stood to leave, she added casually, "I'm in town for three more days. I'll be at the Marriott if you decide you want to talk." She pulled her coat around her shoulders, then hesitated. "That song--'Lonely Sundays'--it made me think of my grandmother after my grandfather passed. You captured something true there. Something important."

With that, she was gone, leaving behind only her business card and the lingering possibility of a future Jacob had never imagined for himself.

That night, as he walked home through quiet streets, the card heavy in his pocket, Jacob thought about bread cast upon waters, about seeds planted without expectation of harvest. He thought about Jet, performing his songs hundreds of miles away, speaking his name to people who could change his life if he allowed it.

At his apartment, he sat at his small kitchen table and placed Lydia's card beside his notebook. He opened to a blank page and wrote a single line: "Sometimes the world finds you, no matter how well you hide."

Then he picked up his pencil and wrote--not lyrics this time, but a list. Pros and cons. Possibilities and risks. A roadmap for a journey he wasn't sure he was ready to take, but one he was finally willing to consider.

Chapter Ten

The next morning, Jacob woke before his alarm. He'd slept poorly, his mind cycling through possibilities, weighing opportunities against the comfortable routine of his established life. Lydia Summers' business card sat on his nightstand where he'd placed it before attempting sleep. In the gray dawn light, it looked less intimidating--just a rectangle of heavy card stock with embossed lettering.

He went through his morning routine with mechanical precision, trying to create a space in his mind for the decision that loomed. As he sipped his coffee, staring out the window at the awakening city, he reached for his phone.

Jacob called her just after seven, early enough that he wondered if he might get her voicemail. Instead, she answered on the second ring, her voice alert.

"Lydia Summers."

"It's Jacob. Jacob Whitney. From last night."

"Jacob." The warmth in her voice was immediate. "I'm glad you called."

"I was on my way to work," he explained, glancing at the clock, "but I was hoping we could meet after. To talk."

"Absolutely," Lydia replied. "Name the time and place."

Jacob hesitated for only a moment. "There's a Starbucks on Cedar Street. I go there sometimes. Would six work?"

"Cedar Street Starbucks at six," she confirmed. "I'll be there."

As Jacob prepared to end the call, he found himself adding, "I have a lot of songs, but I don't know you well enough to winnow through them to find five or six that would fit you. I'd like to get the sense of who you want to be. Musically, I mean."

The silence on the other end stretched long enough that Jacob wondered if the call had dropped. Then Lydia spoke, her voice thoughtful.

"That's... no one has ever asked me that question before. Who I want to be." She paused again. "Thank you for asking it. I'll see you at six, Jacob."

The workday passed in the usual blur of the hammering of fitters and the actinic arc of welders, Jacob's hands performing their tasks with practiced precision while his mind wandered to the evening ahead. He left the fabrication shop at five thirty, giving himself time to shower and change at home before the meeting.

At five fifty-five, Jacob pushed open the door to the Cedar Street Starbucks, a modern space with exposed brick walls and large windows overlooking the street. It was busy but not crowded, the after-work rush beginning to taper off. He liked this location for its back corner, a semi-secluded area with comfortable chairs and a table large enough to spread out notebooks.

He ordered a tall drip and claimed the corner space, arranging himself so he could see the door without being immediately visible to everyone who entered. Old habits die hard.

At precisely six, Lydia Summers walked in. She had made an effort to blend in--hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, minimal makeup, jeans and a gray sweater that wouldn't draw attention. Still, she carried herself with the unmistakable confidence of someone accustomed to commanding spaces much larger than a coffee shop. Heads turned despite her attempts at anonymity.

She spotted Jacob in the corner and nodded, first stopping at the counter to order before making her way to him. Jacob rose slightly as she approached, an ingrained courtesy that felt awkward in execution.

"Thanks for meeting me," he said as she settled into the chair across from him.

"Thank you for calling," Lydia replied, setting down her elaborate iced concoction. "I wasn't sure you would."

Jacob nodded, uncertain how to navigate the pleasantries expected in such situations. He opted for directness. "You want to record my songs."

"I want to explore the possibility," Lydia clarified. "But more than that, I want to understand your approach. Last night at The Blue Note--those songs weren't just well-crafted. They were honest in a way most music isn't anymore." She leaned forward slightly. "So before we discuss any specific songs, I'm curious about your process."

Jacob took a sip of his coffee, using the moment to organize his thoughts. "I don't really have a process. Not a formal one. I just... notice things. People. Stories that need telling."

"Like the widow in 'Lonely Sundays,'" Lydia suggested.

"Yeah. I read that obituary and couldn't stop thinking about her. About what Sunday mornings would be like, how rituals change when someone's gone." He looked down at his hands, one thumb absently tracing a scar on the opposite palm. "I don't write about myself, if that's what you're asking."

Lydia smiled slightly. "That's exactly why your songs feel universal. You're not centering yourself in them."

The barista called Lydia's name, indicating her order was ready. She excused herself briefly to retrieve it, giving Jacob a moment to collect his thoughts. When she returned, he redirected the conversation.

"You said you're leaving Arclight. Going solo. Why?"

If Lydia was surprised by the direct question, she didn't show it. "Creative differences, partly. After three albums and five years of touring, we're repeating ourselves. But it's more than that." She stirred her drink thoughtfully. "I don't recognize myself in our music anymore. Maybe I never did."

"So, who do you want to be?" Jacob asked, echoing his question from the phone call. "Musically."

Lydia set her drink aside, giving the question her full attention. "I want to be authentic. That sounds like industry jargon, I know, but I mean it genuinely. I'm thirty-two years old. I've experienced loss, love, disillusionment, hope. I want to make music that reflects a real life, not some perpetual adolescent fantasy."

"That's not very specific," Jacob observed.

"It isn't, is it?" She laughed softly. "Okay, more specifically--I grew up on Joni Mitchell, Tracy Chapman, Patti Smith. Women who had something to say and their own way of saying it. I admire songwriters who tell stories, who create characters you care about in the space of three minutes."

This was something Jacob could engage with--music as craft rather than celebrity. "What about tone? Your band is..." he searched for a diplomatic phrase.

"Loud. Aggressive. Over-produced." Lydia supplied the words without rancor. "I'm looking for something more intimate. Not unplugged coffeehouse music, but something with space to breathe. Room for lyrics to be heard."

Jacob nodded, beginning to form a mental catalog of which songs in his collection might align with this vision. "And your voice--it's different in Arclight than what you're describing. More..."

"Performative," she finished. "I can actually sing, you know. Not just belt and scream. I started in jazz before the band."

This surprised Jacob. "Jazz?"

"College jazz ensemble. Nothing professional, but it shaped my ear." She leaned back in her chair, studying him. "Your turn. Tell me something about yourself that isn't obvious."

Jacob tensed slightly, the familiar wariness returning. Personal questions typically led to his scars, to the story he'd told so many times it had lost all emotional resonance.

"I'm a welder," he said instead. "By day. I work on pressure vessels of all sizes."

Lydia tilted her head slightly. "That requires precision. Patience. Attention to detail."

"Yes."

"Like songwriting."

Jacob had never made the connection explicitly, but she wasn't wrong. "I suppose so."

"What else?" Lydia pressed gently.

Jacob hesitated, then offered more. "I paint and sketch. Not professionally. Just for myself."

"What kind of painting?"

"Portraits, mostly. People I see at the market, on the bus. Strangers." He didn't mention that his latest effort featured the elderly woman who faithfully attended his weekend performances, her face reimagined in different eras of her life.

Lydia seemed genuinely interested. "You observe people. That explains a lot about your lyrics."

The conversation flowed more easily after that, moving between music they admired, books they'd read, places they'd traveled (Lydia extensively, Jacob hardly at all). Jacob found himself gradually relaxing, his initial anxiety giving way to cautious engagement. Lydia was different from her public persona--more thoughtful, genuinely curious about his perspective.

As their discussion approached the two-hour mark, Jacob realized he'd spoken more about himself than he had to anyone since Jet. Lydia had drawn him out with careful questions and attentive listening, creating a space where he felt, if not entirely comfortable, at least not exposed.

"I think," Jacob said finally, "I might have some songs that would fit who you want to be. Not who you've been with Arclight."

Lydia set down her long-empty cup. "That's exactly what I'm hoping for."

"I'd need to go through my notebooks. Some of them are finished, some need work. But I can hear your voice in certain pieces now that we've talked."

"How many songs are we talking about?" Lydia asked.

Jacob considered the stacks of notebooks in his apartment, years of daily writing accumulated like geological strata. "Hundreds. Maybe more. But only a fraction would be right for you."

"Would you be willing to show me some of them? Maybe tomorrow?"

Jacob thought about his carefully guarded privacy, about the vulnerability of sharing work that had never been intended for public consumption. But he also thought about Jet, about how their collaboration had expanded rather than diminished his music.

"Not at my place," he said, establishing a boundary. "But there's a practice room at the community college I've used before. Private. Has a piano."

"That would be perfect," Lydia agreed immediately. "Whatever makes you comfortable."

As they prepared to leave, gathering empty cups and pushing in chairs, Lydia paused. "One more thing, Jacob. If we do this--if we find songs that work and move forward with recording--would you consider performing backing vocals on some tracks? Your voice has a quality that complements mine."

The question caught him off guard. "I don't perform. Not like that."

"Think about it," she suggested gently. "No pressure. But sometimes the most powerful music comes from stepping beyond what's comfortable."

Outside the Starbucks, as they prepared to part ways, Lydia extended her hand. "Thank you for today. For asking the question no one else has bothered to ask."

Jacob accepted her handshake briefly. "Tomorrow, then? Two o'clock at the college?"

"I'll be there," she confirmed.

As Jacob walked home through the evening streets, he felt a curious lightness. For years, he'd contained his music within careful boundaries--his notebooks, his corner at the market, eventually The Blue Note. Now those boundaries were shifting, not through force, but through fate. His songs, born of observation and empathy, might find their way to ears he'd never imagined reaching.

He thought of the widow from "Lonely Sundays," how her life had contracted and then expanded again in new ways after loss. Perhaps creativity followed a similar pattern--contraction for protection, then gradual expansion when the time was right.

That night, Jacob pulled out his notebooks, dozens of them filling a trunk beneath his bed. He began to sort through them methodically, post-it notes marking passages that echoed what Lydia had described. Songs about resilience without sentimentality. About seeing beauty in overlooked places. About finding voice after silence.

By midnight, he had a stack of potential songs--more than they could possibly review in one session, but a starting point. A doorway opening to a future he hadn't anticipated but now found himself curious to explore.

Before sleep, he whispered his nightly prayer, adding: "Thank you for the courage to be heard. And for those willing to truly listen."