She’s My Kind Of Rain (Rawlings Ranch #1)

Chapter 2

2

DAISY - MAY 3, 2004

May is always hard for me. The warm weather and budding flowers remind me of new beginnings, but with that comes the reminder of the loss of my dad.

Walking into work today, the air feels heavier than normal and I am hesitant as to whether or not it’s my overthinking or the eerie silence of the office. The building is quiet and there is no scent of coffee permeating the air, which feels off for a Monday morning here at Wellington Music Group.

A small pile of empty boxes lay near the secretary’s desk. I frown. That’s odd. I don’t remember those being there Friday night when I left. I can’t help but think I’m just overanalyzing little things today to help distract me from the inevitable sadness this month usually brings, or if it’s all in my head. Placing my binder and purse on the secretary’s desk, I stride across the room to hang up my coat. I take in a deep breath and exhale slowly, hoping that I can release a bit of my worries along with it. My jacket swishes as I reach to pull down the zipper. A hand touches my shoulder and I jump, startled by Gina’s approach.

An embarrassed smile reaches my lips. “Good morning, I didn’t hear you come up.”

I survey the room, still feeling like something is off, when I notice Gina’s face. Though to most, her smile would seem warm and genuine, I can see the strain in it, the worry hidden behind her eyes. Something’s up. A sense of dread rolls in with my worry.

“Is everything alright?” I question, my heart now thumping in my chest.

“Daisy, today is Wellington Music Group’s last day.” Gina’s expression is filled with sadness. “Bob and I were approached by a much bigger recording company about selling W.M.G. We haven’t been bringing in as much revenue as we used to and we decided now may be the only chance we have to retire and enjoy traveling while we’re still able.” A soft sigh escapes her lips and she places a hand on my shoulder as if it might help comfort me—it doesn’t. “Unfortunately, they intend to bring in their own team to run this office. Everyone who previously worked here will have to reapply if they choose to do so.”

I’m at a loss for words, suddenly feeling like I might throw up. My stomach falls to the floor and I search her face for any indication that this is a joke. That some famous guy is about to jump out and tell me I’m being punked. She breaks eye contact, tucking her short, red hair behind her ears, and looks down at the floor, telling me all I need to know.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I ask desperately, hoping that she will crack a smile and the charade will end, but it’s clear this will not take a turn in my favor.

This is it. I’ve officially lost my shot at being a part of the only record label close to my hometown of Tansy Bay. The job that was solely created for me because my mom was friends with Gina, the head of the Artists and Repertoire department, who just happened to be married to the owner himself, Bob Wellington. And it was the only thing that brought a tiny piece of my dad back into my daily life since I lost him.

“I’m really sorry, Daisy. I would have given you more notice, but Bob and I decided last night and let them know we were willing to accept their offer. They said they would like to finalize the acquisition today. I encourage you to apply once they reopen these doors, or if you ever find yourself applying elsewhere, please feel free to use me as a reference.” Gina grabs my hands and gives them a gentle squeeze, her expression is sad but full of kindness. “You have done amazing here and I have all the faith in the world that you are capable of great things no matter where you end up.”

“I appreciate that, Gina, thank you,” I say, trying to ensure my words come out strong so that she can’t see the emotions warring within me.

“Of course. Feel free to grab whatever you need from your office.” She motions to a small pile of boxes on the floor.

I nod, breaking eye contact with her, fighting back the tears that threaten to fall before I’m alone. I grab a box, and head down the hall to pack my things.

As I enter the room, I look around at all the photos I have on the walls. Moments that brought me such joy. Photos of the first artist Gina helped me sign, a fair where I got to be one of the judges for their talent show, and so many other small occasions that felt like a dream come true at a job I thought I would get to have for the rest of my life.

I reach for my degrees hanging on the wall, feeling extra grateful that this moment is coming after I completed my courses in business and marketing. When I originally enrolled, Gina said if I ever decided to leave W.M.G., different labels would be more interested in hiring me if I not only had experience in A&R, but also a degree to back my ability to do the job. Now I’m just glad I took her up on the opportunity, and even more so that her husband, Bob, had agreed to fund the courses so I could take them straight away.

A single tear runs down my cheek and I wipe it away so no one sees me upset if they pass my door. I know this is already hard enough and I don’t wish to make it any harder on Gina after all she has done for me.

I pack the last thing from my desk and close the door to all the memories I’ve made and all the memories that could have been.

I find Gina is waiting in the lobby to say our final goodbyes. I fake a soft smile while I approach her and set my box on the secretary’s desk, reaching to hug her, happy that this morning I chose to come to work earlier than everyone else so that this would be my only goodbye.

And with one final squeeze, I say, “Thank you for taking a chance on me.”

Tansy Bay is going to be the death of me. I used to view this place as heaven on earth, but that idea died with my dad. We have one stop light, and it has changed to a flashing red four-way stop due to the lack of people who have decided to take up residence here. I can’t say I blame them. I’ve dreamed of leaving it all behind since I was a teenager.

Unfortunately, I made the stupid choice to not go off and make something of myself like many of my friends had once we graduated. I was too worried to leave Mom. Dad had only been gone two years and she was still struggling to find her place. We both were. Then I got the job at Wellington, and I was so wrapped up in being part of the music industry, just to feel some sort of closeness to Dad, that leaving was the last thing on my mind.

Beyond the excuse of protecting my mom’s heart, I also think I’ve been protecting my own. I don’t know what a life outside Tansy Bay looks like because I’ve never considered making it a reality. I can’t sing as well as Dad did, and my writing is okay, but I’ve never been brave enough to share it with anyone besides him. I spent all of high school participating in local fair pageants, singing songs everyone’s heard, and helping our local music program with summer concert events. When I was offered a position at Wellington, I thought all of my dreams were finally going to come true and, honestly, they had. I got to be a part of the music world in some way and make money doing it.

Each street I drive past looks just the same as it always has. Lined with trees and well kept homes. Happy faces—most of which are elderly—and American flags hanging off nearly every porch. I wave to everyone who looks my way because that’s just what we do here in Tansy.

It’s not that this place sucks, it’s just that I dreamed of seeing my name in lights, or at least in a CD pamphlet crediting me to writing a song everyone loves. But here the opportunities are limited, and you’re much more likely to be the leader of a book club than you are to be famous.

My dad was the exception. He may not have been famous in the traditional sense—because he chose not to be—but when he sang, people listened.

It’s been seven years since his stroke and not a day goes by that I don’t wish for one more moment, one more conversation, or one more song.

Pulling into our driveway, my car’s engine slows to a purr and I turn off the ignition. A clunk sounds as I lean my forehead onto my steering wheel. What am I going to do? What am I going to tell mom? Tears sting in my eyes once more, and I don’t fight them off this time. They fall, unbidden, streaming down my cheeks and plopping onto my lap. Blowing out a breath, I sit up and brush the tears from my cheeks. I wonder if Mom is home and watching from the front window. She’ll probably be wondering why I’m just sitting in the driveway when I should be at work. I take in my surroundings, then exit the car. My parents have lived in the same white house my entire life, and though the town now feels small and hopeless, our house is far from it. A huge maple tree shades the entirety of the backyard, its trunk so large I can’t reach my arms around it. A little blue playhouse sits right outside our back door, hand painted flowers and memories are its only decorations now that I’m grown, and an array of flowers are planted along the path leading to the entrance.

I slam my car door harder than intended, the crunch of my shoes and the sound of birds now replacing the soft music I had playing on my way home. I make my way toward the house. The storm door creaks as I open it, adding one more obvious sound to my arrival. Every time I walk through the back entryway I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. The memories here have not always been bright and cheery, but, nonetheless, it’s home.

I take one final breath before I walk up the small set of stairs to the kitchen, because I know Mom will try to fix this even though nothing can be done. A clunking sounds as I drop my box of things on the dining table, and, like clockwork, I hear my mom shuffling toward the kitchen to investigate.

“Daisy, is that you?” She yells, as if anyone else would just walk into our house without an invitation.

“Yeah,” I say, honestly hoping the conversation ends there, though I know it won’t.

She enters the kitchen, her curly red hair in a messy bun and her arms filled with things she must have found cleaning. She does that now, finds things to keep her physically busy on the days she’s not at the shop so that she mentally doesn’t have to think about Dad. I don’t blame her, since I do my best to do the same.

“Why are you back so soon? Is everything okay?” Worry clouds her expression. I focus on the heap of things she holds bundled in her arms, breaking our eye contact to allow myself a moment to compose my thoughts. I glance up to meet her gaze once more. Her stare dips between me and the pile before she adds, “I was just going through the attic. It’s amazing what we all hold on to and don’t even realize it.” She lets out a soft breath, almost like she’s trying to make me feel better even though I haven’t had the chance to tell her something is wrong.

“Bob and Gina decided to sell Wellington to a larger record company who decided today would be their last day open.” I say, trying my best not to let my words flounder.

She looks at me with sadness in her eyes, not saying a word.

“Apparently, they were not bringing in as much money as they used to, and they wanted to ensure they could retire before they were too old to enjoy it.” I force a smile to my lips.“I’m happy for them, I just wish it didn’t affect my job.” I reiterate the information just as it was told to me, hoping that it will answer all of her questions so I won’t have to.

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” She wraps me in a loving embrace, kissing the top of my head. “I just saw in the newspaper that the school is hiring subs. Maybe they will have something available in the music department. I could ask around for you if you’d like?” Like always, she shifts the problem to finding a solution.

Frustration surges within me at the thought of Tansy and its many limitations. Not to mention, the disappointment as I come to a stark realization that: I won’t be able to get that apartment I’d been secretly eyeing for months now. How can I afford rent when I don’t have an income? Realizing I spaced out, I muster up another smile. “Thanks, Mom. I think I’m just going to head up to my room for a bit and I’ll take a look in the classifieds for any local job openings.” I let out a soft breath, reaching for the newspaper sitting on the counter. “If you don’t need the phone, maybe I’ll look online to see if there is anything else available nearby too. Apparently bigger companies have shifted to using job search engines now.”

“That’s fine, honey. Just remember Grandma will be calling around six, and she gets worried when the line is tied up too long. Let me know if I can help in any way. I love you, Dais, you will find something you love, I promise.”

She and I both know that isn’t really a promise she can make, but she makes it anyway because she doesn’t like to see me sad. I hug her one more time and head toward my room, thankful that I held myself together this long. I hate making her sad, and even though this situation is out of my control, I wish I could take the burden of worrying about me from her.

I hastily head up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time before rounding the landing and heading straight through my bedroom door. Since losing my dad, I haven’t had the heart to make many changes to this room. The thought of modifying something he created bothers me much more than the idea that the walls have been the same since the day I was born. He was the one who put up the light pink wallpaper with daisies scattered throughout. A gentle nod to my name. A sad smile tugs on my mouth. How many times had Mom and Dad reminded me that daisies represent new beginnings?

The only true change is the desk that my mom insisted on adding without asking me when I had taken my college courses.

I walk across my brown, shaggy carpet and sit down—once angry that she had someone disrupt the walls to add a phone jack for a computer I hadn’t asked for, but now grateful she had. I let out a deep breath and open the newspaper to look through the job listings. What kind of job do I even want? My eyes scan through a plethora of restaurant positions, from cook to maintenance. I let out a groan of disappointment. Music has always been my passion and I’d never thought I would leave Wellington. Would I be happy with just any old job? I turn on the computer, plug in the phone cord, and wait for the dial-up to connect. Sliding my mouse cursor over to Internet Explorer, I click it and use a search engine to job hunt, hoping that something will pop up right away, but just like the crummy classifieds, there are no open jobs close by that sound even remotely interesting. My heart sinks. worry coiling tighter and tighter in my stomach with each pointless listing. What if I can’t find something? I type in arts and repertoire, just out of curiosity, and in big bold black letters Telluride Records appears at the top of the job search list. I recognize the name immediately—it’s not only the biggest, but also the exact label that had wanted to sign my dad. I let out a sad sigh, wishing he would have gotten to have his family and his dream. Tears well up in my eyes and I put the computer on standby before going to help my mom with whatever cleaning she has left for the day.

As I leave my room, I notice that the ladder to the attic remains lowered. Mom must have forgotten to close it. Something about the scene piques my interest so I head towards it and climb each step cautiously, hoping, praying the rickety old ladder doesn’t give out, while simultaneously trying to ignore my fear of heights. But the pull to investigate wouldn’t be ignored.. Each step creaks until I reach the top rung, calling out into the space for my mom.

“Find anything exciting?” I say, once I make my final move up the step and into the wide open loft.

But she’s nowhere to be found. Beyond dust, the room is filled with many things of my past, from my bassinet to bins of all my old clothes and toys, but what captivates my attention most, is my dad’s guitar case. The floor boards groan beneath my feet as I walk across the room and sit down on the floor beside the container that holds the one item my dad held almost as close to his heart as my mom and I. My heart squeezes as I trace my fingers over the fake leather texture imprinted onto its shell. Memories surface of all the times he brought it out and sang songs to me. Sorrow rushes into my chest. The attic feels like the worst place to put something you hold so near and dear. Why would Mom have put this up here? Better yet, why hadn’t I tried to find it until now?

My heart aches, remembering him putting a country twist on old rock songs and changing the lyrics so they would feel like they were written just for me. Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl had been shifted to blue eyed girl, but my favorite was when he would sing Jody Reynolds, Raven Hair—partly because having dark hair was something we shared. Most of the songs he sang were ballads of love which led to me being nothing like all the little girls who dreamed of princes coming to rescue them and take their hand, yet instead finding a love so deep that it hurt, so strong that the only way to express it was by pouring your soul out in a song.

I pick up the case and carefully carry it down the ladder, not sure what my plan will be from here, but glad to be touching something my dad held so close to his heart on a day that mine feels like it’s breaking all over again.

I can’t sleep. I find myself tossing and turning, too many thoughts running through my head. My dad’s guitar case is leaned up against my wall, forming new shadows with its presence in my never changing room. All I can think about is how much I wish my dad was still here, and if life would be any different if he had taken a chance on his dreams rather than staying where he had planted roots. Even though I know it didn’t have anything to do with his health, I still ponder the fact that a change in circumstance could have made a difference.

A red light illuminates across the room, drawing my attention. I must have forgotten to shut the computer down all the way. With a soft sigh, I pull back the covers and trudge to the desk, clicking the mouse buttons and wiggling it to bring the computer back to life. Earlier I could have sworn I unplugged the phone jack, but the moment the screen lights up, there, on the monitor, is the job listing for an A&R Rep for Telluride Records. An odd feeling washes over me, pushing me to fill out the form.

Have I completely lost my mind? A job is in Nashville, means I’d have to not only move there, but leave mom? And yet, my fingers begin to type away until my cursor clicks on the submit button. Did I really just apply for a job at Telluride? Ignoring all of the thoughts and fears, and hopes and dreams bombarding my brain, I make sure to properly close out the window and shut down the computer before making a b-line toward my bed.

My eyes fall onto my dad’s guitar in the corner. I veer toward it, part of me unsure if I should open it for fear of not wanting to disrupt anything he’d left behind the last time he’d closed it. Without even seeing the guitar again, I can envision it perfectly—An original acoustic Gibson with a vintage sunburst coloring. His strap is old, worn down leather, and the pair had seen more country stages than he said he could even count. Seven years feels like a lifetime, but even more so when the job that connected me to him no longer exists. Thinking about it all makes me miss him that much more. A magnetic pull urges me to open the case, one that I can no longer ignore.. I reach down to unlatch the two closures, hoping that seeing his guitar again might make me feel better about the disconnect I’m feeling with music today.

With an audible click, each clasp lifts with ease as I slowly open the lid and peer inside. There, on Dad’s guitar, is a butterfly postage stamp that I had stuck on it when I was seven. Grandma had yelled at me at the time, but Dad said it added just the right character the moment he saw me upset. The lid flings the rest of the way open, drawing my attention upward. Pinned to the top of the case, is a photo of Dad and I. His blue eyes are filled with joy, this very guitar placed in his hands. He looks at me with a love that only a father could have for his daughter, a love so pure you could almost physically feel it when you saw it. The smile on my face says it all. I was more at home than I’d ever been at that moment. And I’m so grateful that there is a photo capturing it.

I pull the guitar out, holding it in my arms for the first time in years. I strum the first few notes of a song I wrote before he passed away, a wave of emotions pummeling into me. My chest squeezes tight and tears swell in my eyes, threatening to spill down my cheeks. Releasing the guitar, I place it back into its tomb. My eyes return to the picture of us.

My soul aches greatly, knowing that I won’t ever get that moment back, and with that, I close the guitar case, crawl back in bed, and cry myself to sleep.