Page 3 of A Country Kind Of Love
“Anything,” Dylan and James reply in unison.
A magazine rack sits to the left of the piano with several notebooks inside, all her mom’s songs, over two decades worth of lyrics. Her love for music writing came from her mom; the unsystematic way Peyton scrawls lyrics upon lyrics also came from her mom.
“Sing one of Mom’s,” Dylan urges. James sits cross-legged on the floor beside the piano whilst Dylan leans against the top—nothing like being under pressure. Peyton chuckles to herself. There is something funny about seeing two grown men completely silent in child-like poses.
Peyton picks out the first notebook. She flicks through until she stumbles upon a single sentence that sparks a thousand memories;I have faith in you.
She recalls the melody like it was only yesterday.
“Sometimes...” She clearsher throat.
“Sometimes...your dreamsfail...”
Peyton’s fingers caress the keys; her posture moves with the sound of the melody. “And sometimes your heart breaks, but...”
The keyis too high.
She plays the chords again. Starting at the beginning, she tries to make sense of the sheet music, but she ultimately plays from memory. She presses the pedals, and the notes get softer. Peyton attempts to sustain the final chord of the first verse before thechorus hits.
That’s it, she thinks.That’s howMom did it.
The music swells. Peyton sings the chorus from the top twice through.
“Sometimes your dreams fail, and sometimes your heart breaks, but the world never stops turning and your heart never stops yearning.
For the real thing, the burst of passion in your wings. Darling, there’s a whole world outside your little room, and you’ll find your way, as long as you want to.”
Peyton inhales, she closes her eyes. The velvety sound of the piano chords takes her to another time. She pictures what it would be like to hear her mother’s voice again. What she would give to hear it over her own, to hear her sing the final line one last time.
“Because I have faith in you. Mmmm... yeah... I have faith in you.”
The final note echoes. Peyton feels the vibration from the keys shudder through her body. Suddenly, she is consumed in a tight embrace that smells like cologne mixed with sea salt.
“You’re incredible.”Dylan beams.
“You sound just like Mom,”James says.
It’s the nostalgia for her brothers. They like to hear her sing because her voice is reminiscent of their mom’s. Peyton brings them peace when she sings, even if it’s fleeting. She struggles with that. She’s torn between following in her mother’s footsteps and recoiling at the thought. Her mom liked being front and centre. She thrived on the spotlight. Her voice was her gift. Peyton prefers to shrink into the background, but it hasn’t always been that way.
In her early teens she was carefree, sociable, and fun-loving. She enjoyed a party as much as the next kid, but when their mom died everything changed.
In the summer of 2014 Dylan returned home to find their mom on the kitchen floor unresponsive. Melanie Harris died of a heart attack. It was sudden and unexpected. Melanie was healthy. She ran marathons. She ate loathsome salads daily because they possessed all the nutrients the body needed. She would walk rather than drive, drink more water than her body required, and always made their family holidays activity based. In her words, “A healthy family is a happy family”.
It still doesn’t make sense to Peyton. Eight years later she still struggles with the unfairness of her mother’s death. After that summer she was never the same. Her brother, Dylan, went off to university a year later. James followed a year after that, leaving Peyton at home amongst the memories.
?
“I don’t see why you need to move all the way to Tennessee. Surely, if you want to be in the music industry, California is the place to be.” Dylan shrugs.
“Not if you write country music.” Peyton hauls a box of clothes to the end of the driveway. The large American Van Lines moving van seems vast in size, but with her boxes, her bed, and her dressing table inside it seems like the yard sales she’s done for the past four weekends barely scratchedthe surface.
“You don’t have to be in the country to release country music.” Dylan scoffs.
Peyton rolls her eyes for the fifth time that morning. “Nashville is famous for country music, Dylan. It’s exactly where Ineed to be.”
“I’m worried for you that’s all; you’re my baby sister, and I can’t get to you quick enough if anything goes wrong.” Dylan says whilst holding up a black case in the shape of a small guitar. “Is thismy ukulele?”
Peyton ignores him. “The protective big brother act is sweet and all, but we know what happenedlast time.”
