Page 19 of We Redeemed the Rain

“A vacation planner.”

I shook my head.

“Finance chick of some sort?”

I suppressed an amused giggle. “Nowhere close.”

Her voice raised in pitch as her nose wrinkled. “Bra fitter?”

“Thankfully, no.”

“Alright, tell me since my vibe meter’s broken today.”

“I’m an independent musician.”

She tilted her head to the side, impressed. Her gaze raked over me with a new perspective. “Alright, I can see it. Do you sing?”

“Yes, I’m a songwriter. And I play guitar.” I waved to the floor on the opposite side of my stool, indicating Glory’s case.

“I swear. My contacts prescription must be going bad—I didn’t even see that down there!” An eager look lifted her eyebrows, and she swatted at the air between us as if we were old pals. “Well, this is fun. I work with independents like you all the time. I’m a SEO guru. Started my home-based marketing company when SEO wasn’t even a thing and we were still using magazine ads.” She shook her head as a strange mix of awe and pity warred on her face. “Artists are some of the most passionate people I’ve ever met, but good gracious, theentire lot of you wouldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with your marketing goals.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “You’re not wrong. Most of us are pretty hopeless outside of our craft.” I grimaced on the inside as I said that because my craft was in serious need of help—anoverhaul,according to Jerry Trace. “So SEO. That’s pretty cool.”

“It is cool. Makes for boring conversation though.” The bartender brought her a tall mimosa. “Thank you. Get my friend here one too, will ya?” She slid the drink toward herself and took a sip off the top, her dark red lipstick leaving a smudge on the glass. “Hope you like champagne. If not, I’ll drink yours. What’s your name, cupcake?”

“Thanks. I love a good mimosa.” Shemmmedin agreement as she tipped her glass. “My name’s Bea. Yours?”

“Paula Deese. NotDeen, mind you. Much to my momma’s disappointment, I can’t cook worth shit.”

I laughed again. “Are you going home, too?”

“No, sadly.” She shifted her knees toward the empty space between us. “I’m visiting my sister in Los Angeles.Mercy, I don’t know why anyone in their right mind would want to live in such a place.”

I chuckled. “It’s an interesting city.”

“Interesting! Ha! My husband would call that place a concrete jungle. I asked him to come with me, but he claimed he’d rather die.”

“Where are you from?”

“A tiny little farm town in Mississippi. My daddy’s a corn farmer, and I married a man in the beef business. So my entire life is cattle, crops, and computers. It’s a weird mesh, but I adore it. My Arnie bosses the cows and I boss him.” She pulled her phone out and tapped a couple times. “There he is.” She held the screen toward me. “We never had children, so it’s been the two of us for going on twenty-seven years. I love that man more than life itself.”

I leaned toward her to have a look. In the picture, Paula stood in front of a barn, wrapped in the arms of a cowboy. He stood several inches taller than her with a dark brown cowboy hat pushed down on his brow and a brown flannel shirt. She wore a professional pantsuit and had her mouth open like she was laughing. He kissed her forehead.

Something stirred deep within me. Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

The couple stood in front of a red painted barn with white trim. Hayloft doors were propped open wide above their heads. Perfectly idyllic.

My heart thumped as memories of my old friend, Scribbs, flooded my brain—the letters we wrote, the friendship that grounded me, and the hayloft where I found him.

“Well,” Paula’s voice jerked me back to the present. “I knew we were a gorgeous pair, but?—”

To my horror, I realized I’d taken her phone from her hand and held it closer to my face, staring with a frown. How long was I looking? I startled, thrusting her phone back. “Paula, I’m sorry?—”

She laughed, taking it.

“I probably seem like a weirdo. I—” She waited as I stammered for words. “My childhood best friend was a cowboy and your—your picture brought back some memories.”

Does he ever think of me?

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