Page 37 of The Escape Plan

“Despicable,” he agrees. “Depriving the entire nation of essential chemicals.”

As Beckett and I banter back and forth, I’m surprised to feel a sort of calm contentment falling over me. I was looking for a way to clear my head this morning, and as it turns out, a trip to Spring Foods with my neighbor was apparently the key.

It’s a bit strange, but when I’m with Beckett, I feel… relaxed, somehow. Like I don’t have to try to escape what I’m feeling.

I lean over and take the box of Oat Bran out of his hand and add a box of Froot Loops and another of Count Chocula to his haul. “Speaking of chemicals, have you been introduced to the wonders of Marshmallow Fluff yet?”

Beckett groans. “You have a secret plan to induce diabetes in me or something?”

“Just trying to get you more enjoyment in your life.”

He gestures in front of him with a silly flourish. “In that case, lead the way, Miss Roberts.”

Chapter Thirteen

Beckett

“Beckett!”Ezra looks ridiculously happy to see me. In fact, despite his somewhat menacing appearance at first glance, this guy could be the poster child for that “small town hospitality” Mr. Prenchenko told me about.

A good reminder to never judge a book by its tattooed cover. Fittingly, today, he’s wearing a graphic t-shirt with the logo of a 90s punk band on the front.

“Hiya,” I greet him with a smile as I head towards the back of the store. Blue Notes is empty again, and instead of standing behind the cashier’s desk, Ezra is sitting on it while eating salad from a cardboard container.

“Sorry, I was just on my lunch break,” he says, setting down the container. He gestures around the store with a smirk. “Busy morning, as you can see.”

“Do you own the place?” I ask, almost hoping for his sake that the answer isno.

He senses the poorly veiled concern in my voice and laughs. “I do. But don’t worry, we do makesomemoney… just not necessarily from retail.” He jumps off the counter and beckons me to follow him down a narrow hallway and through a door into a back section of the shop.

He flicks on a light switch, illuminating a back hallway with windows on either side looking into what appear to be spacious, private rooms. “We offer music lessons in these rooms in the afternoons and evenings—usually guitar, piano, and drum lessons. There’s also a concert violinist who comes through town every once in a while and gives lessons when he’s here.” He throws a grin over his shoulder. “So if you, for some reason, decide to stay instead of going home after your vacation, you’re always welcome to teach lessons here.”

“I’d actually love to give some lessons while I’m here,” I offer. “If you need any extra teachers, that is.”

“Hey, that’d be great. Thanks, man.”

“Not like I have much else going on,” I joke, and as he shuts the door on the last lesson room, he gives me a smirk.

“I saved the best for last…”

At the end of the hallway, Ezra gestures with a flourish towards the last and biggest window. I look inside and am shocked to see a recording studio.

An actual, state-of-the-art recording studio, with high-tech equipment and a drool-worthy set-up. A plaque above the door reads “Lucky 13 Studios.”

Lucky, indeed.

I’m exceedingly jealous of Ezra’s business, which is clearly so much more than just a music store. This guy’s got his act together, that’s for sure.

Ezra takes in my expression and grins. “Thought you might appreciate it.”

“Appreciateit?! This is incredible. I’m like a little kid in a sweet shop—er,candy store,as you’d say here.” In fact, it’s all I can do not to press my nose up against the glass as I peer into the sleek facility.

“We get people coming from all over to record here. It’s where the magic happens, to use that cheesy old line. In fact…” Ezra pauses for a moment. “We recently had a certain very-well-known Irish gentleman in here to record a single for his upcoming album. Must’ve heard about the legend of luck here in Serendipity Springs and thought he’d try his hand.”

“We can be a rather superstitious bunch.” I laugh, wondering who it might have been but not wanting to ask, and then add without thinking, “I’d give my left arm to record in here.”

”You want to book some slots?”

Ezra’s question catches me weirdly off-guard. Back before Gran died, I wrote most of an original album, and when I would play at the local pub, I’d alternate between popular covers and trialing my originals on a small—admittedly drunken—audience.

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