by Sara Biren
“Solid choice,” I tell her. “1971, from the Led Zeppelin IV album. Fun fact: Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart did a cover of this song for the Singles soundtrack as the Lovemongers.” I play it for her next.
“Oh, I think I like that version better,” she says, and I know she must be teasing me because she smiles broadly. Who in their right mind would chose a cover over the obviously flawless original?
“Very funny. Let’s go.”
Before we get across the parking lot, though, my phone buzzes three times in quick succession.
Rocky: Gabey boy it’s Rocky. Haven’t heard from you in a while.
Rocky: How’s it going?
Rocky: I don’t know about you but I’m starting to get a little nervous? Call me when you can.
Well, hell. Rocky’s worried that I won’t come through. Welcome to my world, Rock. I shove the phone deep in my jacket pocket. I take a long drink from my water bottle and hope that I can keep it—and my breakfast—down.
“Everything OK?” Juniper asks.
“Yeah, of course,” I say, but I don’t elaborate, and I don’t try to make up some story that she probably wouldn’t buy, anyway.
We have the trail mostly to ourselves. It’s a cold Friday morning at a tucked-away trail in far northern Minnesota. We’re closer to Canada than we are to Harper’s Mill. A couple of minutes into the trail, I reach for Juniper’s hand and tug her close to me.
“Hard to hike holding hands,” she says. I can see her puffs of breath in the chilly air.
“Oh, really? Have you ever tried?”
She laughs. “No.”
“We’ll be fine. And if it takes us a couple of minutes longer to make it to the falls, oh well. I plan to kiss you at the end of the trail no matter what.”
“Is that right?”
“I will kiss you at the end of every trail, Blue. At the top of every hill we climb,” I say, all teasing gone from my voice. “And again at the bottom and everywhere in between.”
She smiles. “You’re something of a poet, aren’t you?”
“I prefer songwriter. Lyricist if you want to get fancy.”
We hear the rushing of the falls before we see them. After less than fifteen minutes on the windy, woody trail, we reach the waterfall. It’s broad and magnificent, and Juniper’s face lights up at the sight. A few people climb the rocks down toward the rushing water, but Juniper tugs me in the opposite direction, to a higher elevation point.
“Follow me,” she says.
We climb up for a couple of minutes. The roots of a large tree near the edge of the hill extend downward along the trail, winding and overlapping one another as if holding down the earth, making sure it doesn’t slip away into the lake below.
At the top of the hill, we stand quietly together, watching the rush of the water, churning as it meets the lake below. I stand behind her, my arms wrapped around her, my chin on the top of her head. I’m holding on tight. I won’t let her slip away. I breathe the crisp, clean air deeply and try to let go of the sick feeling I’ve had since Rocky texted. He’s right. Time’s running out. Today, I’ll hold my girl in my arms. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what I’m going to do about the money.
“This is beautiful,” Juniper says after we watch the falls for a few minutes. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For bringing me here. For the adventure.”
So of course, I have to kiss her. I turn her in my arms and kiss her like it matters. She matters. She’s everything.
Saturday, Chris and I drive down to the Twin Cities for a show at the Palace Theater in St. Paul. On the drive, Chris drills me about school, the farm, and Juniper (“You better treat her right or you will deal with me,” he says, as if I haven’t been dealing with him my whole life).
“You get that real estate agent off your back?” he asks.
“Yeah, it took a few more calls, but I think he finally got the picture.” I pause, not sure that I’m ready to tell Chris my latest idea for the farm. Not until I can solidify a few more details. I decide that it can wait another week or so.
“You know, it might not hurt to maybe go through Gran’s things? See what you can donate or shit, I don’t know, put in a museum? Or, uh, sell?”
“You’re not saying this because you want to demo the farmhouse, are you?” He side-eyes me.
“No, no,” I’m quick to reply. “Nothing like that.”
“Mm-hmm,” Chris murmurs. “I suppose it’s time.” He pauses, then says, “You know, I’ve always wanted to build right on the river. Maybe I should sell the house in Venice Beach and come home.”
I look at him in surprise. “You’d leave LA?”
He shrugs. “I can always get an apartment and fly back if I need to. You, too.”
I don’t respond right away, considering this. What it would be like to live here full-time. “Yeah,” I say quietly.
We grab a bite to eat at a nearby brewpub before the show. The band, Default to Deny, opened for Dig Me Under on the Midwestern leg of their last tour, so Chris promised them he’d come to the show, maybe join them onstage for a couple of songs.
The guys (and one woman, the drummer) are pretty cool. Not much older than me, actually. The five of them met at the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee and dropped out junior year to take a shot at the big time. I was at a few of the shows that they opened on the DMU tour.
Chris and I hang out in the wings. This band is good. And it feels good to be back in a venue, around musicians and their fans. Toward the end of the set, Ini, the lead singer with a big Lenny Kravitz vibe, launches into the story of how Chris gave them a chance and has been their biggest supporter and mentor.
“Chris has been spending a lot of time up at his farm in northern Minnesota,” Ini says, “and would you fucking believe that he’s here tonight? What do you think? Should we get him out here to play something?”
The crowd goes nuts when Chris steps out onstage and somebody hands him a guitar. He launches into the opening riff from “Desolation,” and Kels joins in on the drums. Then they transition seamlessly into “Miss You” by the Rolling Stones like they did on the tour. It still sounds awesome.
When the applause dies down, Ini grabs the mic again and says, “Yeah, it’s killer that Chris Hudson is here tonight, but it gets better: Junior’s here with him. What do you think, wanna hear something from Gabe Hudson?”
The roar of the crowd is deafening and completely unexpected. Holy shit. Are they seriously calling me out there? The Chris thing was planned, obviously, but this? Nobody looped me in. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is, the crowd is happy to see me. I join Chris and Ini onstage and throw my hand up in a wave.
“Dude,” Ini says, “the last time I saw you, you still had braces! How the fuck you been, little dude? What do you think, people? What should we play with the little dude?”
I grin. I’d forgotten how Ini and the rest of the band called me little dude. The crowd’s chanting “Burden” and “Imitation of Life.” God, I’ve missed all of this so much.
“What the hell?” I say into the mic. “Nothing from the new album?”
That gets a laugh from the band and Chris and a lot of people in the crowd.
“Good one,” Chris mouths to me.
“‘Burden’ it is!” Ini yells, and the next thing I know, I’ve got a guitar and I’m playing with this band as if we’ve done it a hundred times before. It’s easy and loud and like not one day has passed since the last time I was in front of a crowd.
How does it feel
Well, how does it feel
Now that you’re the burden
You always knew you would be
I know how it feels
Yeah, I know how it feels
I am the burden
I always knew I would be
The final ear-splitting notes of “Burden” settle over the roaring crowd. Eventually, the crowd quiets down again and Ini says, “One more. One more. So here’s a quic
k story from when we got our big break, when we toured with DMU a couple of years back. We were hanging out backstage, right, and it was a big fucking deal. Like, we were hanging out with Dig Me Under. That’s some fucked-up shit, right? Here we are, not even old enough to drink, and we’re hanging out with these rock legends. Yeah, so, we’re somewhere backstage and all of a sudden, we hear this singing. These two voices harmonizing, and I swear, I thought maybe I’d died, and I was in heaven, like, grunge heaven? You know that place. Chris and little dude were singing some Alice in Chains, and I think we should play that for you all tonight.”
I remember that night. I remember how Ini and the rest of Default to Deny stood in the green room, how Ini’s mouth dropped open when he realized it was me singing with Chris.
“Little dude,” Ini said when the song ended, “when are you going to put out a record?”
Rico kicks off the opening riff of “Heaven Beside You,” and Kels comes in on the drums a few measures later, and it’s like Chris and I are down at the campfire but it’s so much better. We hit the harmonies and the band kills it and the crowd is loving every minute of it.
I’m loving every minute of it, too. My heart’s racing, I’m sweating under the lights, I’m grinning and playing guitar and singing my heart out for people who love music, love seeing a live show and being with other people like them.
We finish the song and Ini thanks us. “Chris Hudson and little dude Gabe Hudson, thank you!” Ini yells. “We love you fucking guys, you know that, right?” and the crowd roars.
Chris lifts his hand in a wave, and I follow him off the stage. Someone hands us each a bottle of water, and Chris gulps his down in a couple of swallows.
“Hell, that felt good, didn’t it?” he says. “There’s nothing I’d rather do with my life.”
Tonight, nobody seemed to care that I put out a shit album. Tonight, all that mattered was the band, and the music, and the people.
“That’s the first step, kid,” Chris says. “You’re on your way back.”
I hope he’s right.
Chapter Forty
JUNIPER
Gabe’s text doesn’t come until almost one. I’m awake, waiting.
Gabe: Are you still up? Can I call you?
Me: Yes
The video call comes through seconds later. He’s in a hotel room, his curls a mess, a huge grin on his face.
“Hey,” he says. “Tonight was so fucking awesome.”
I can’t help smiling at how happy he looks. “Yeah? The band was good, then?”
“Well, yeah, but I went up onstage and played. And it rocked. I wish you could have been there.”
“What did you play?”
“The crowd wanted ‘Burden,’ and then Chris and I sang ‘Heaven Beside You.’ It felt so good to be back in front of a crowd.”
My smile falls a little. I don’t mean for it to happen, but it does, and Gabe notices.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I promise,” I say quickly. “It’s strange, though, this feeling I have right now. Like I’m so incredibly happy for you, but sad for myself.” I laugh a little.
“Aw, Blue,” he says as he flops backward onto his pillows. “Why are you sad?”
I swallow hard, not sure if I want to tell him. He’s Gabe Hudson. He’s a musician. His entire career revolves around traveling the world and playing live for his fans. He’s not a farmer. “Someday, you won’t be here on the farm.”
He sits up again and startles me with how intensely he looks into the camera. “Blue, let’s not worry about someday, OK? Let’s think about today. Well, tomorrow, because I come home tomorrow.”
I smile again. “What time are you leaving St. Paul?”
“Checkout’s at eleven. I doubt we’ll leave before then. And Chris wants to grab breakfast at Mickey’s Diner.”
I yawn. “Are you exhausted?”
“Yeah,” he says, “but I’m inspired, too, and I can’t wait to get back to my guitars.”
“That’s so good,” I say and yawn again.
“Hey, you should go to sleep. Means a lot that you waited up for me, though. I miss you, Blue.” He laughs. “That’s actually kind of new for me, missing someone as much as I miss you.”
My insides flip-flop. No one has ever said the kinds of things to me that Gabe says.
“Miss you, too,” I whisper.
“Get some sleep, sweet girl. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
We hang up and I turn out the light. But I can’t sleep. I pick up my phone from where I set it on the nightstand and pull up Twitter. I search for @thegabehudson, and sure enough, he’s tagged in countless videos along with @defaulttodeny. I watch the videos, most of them shaky or blurry, until I find one from someone up close to the stage.
I watch, transfixed, as the camera zooms in on him as he plays a guitar and sings “Burden.” He’s all there, so into it. I’m amazed by his talent, how he knows exactly what he wants to do and what he needs to do to get there, even if he screws up along the way.
He’s bigger than the world of the farm. He’s meant for something greater, meant to inspire and fill up others. Like Chris.
Maybe, like Chris, he can belong in both worlds. I hope that he wants to try.
I turn off the phone and lie awake in the dark, “Burden” on a constant loop in my head.
It’s an off week for the farmers’ market, so I sleep in until eight and dress in layers for another hike up to the overlook. Mom’s already out in the barns, so I make a cup of Irish Breakfast tea and head for the trail.
The ground is covered with the spiky white crystals of the first hard frost. Finally. I smile, thinking that I can’t wait to tell Gabe, that I’m sorry he missed it.
I’m about to cut across the yard to the trail when I notice a car parked alongside the private road north of our driveway, a car I don’t recognize.
I change course and walk toward the car, a Lexus. Not many of those around here. Then I see a guy with pale, freckled skin and rusty hair, dressed in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, in the field next to the road, holding a camera up to his face. This used to happen a lot more, usually when Dig Me Under released a new album or if word got out that Chris was in town. This guy, in his rock star clothes and Doc Martens, standing in a farm field? Total Dig Me Under fan.
“Hey!” I call as I make my way over to him. “You know you’re on private property, right?”
He turns, lowers the camera, and walks toward me.
“I’ll be damned. Juniper Blue, is it?” His British accent is thick but clear.
He knows who I am. My heart speeds up. “What are you doing on our property?”
“Our? I thought this farm belonged to Chris and Gabe Hudson. Stone & Wool Farm, Harper’s Mill, Minnesota, United States. The sign out front says Stone & Wool, so I know I’m in the right place.”
“How can I help you . . .”
“Graham. Graham Briggs. Not sure that you can, sweetheart, unless you can let me in that round barn to take a look around. I thought that Gabe would be here, but there was no answer down at the farmhouse. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Why do you need to get into the round barn?” I ask. My voice shakes. Who is this guy? Why is he looking for Gabe?
“You know what? Maybe I can come back another time.” He must sense my nervousness. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, sweetheart. I’ll give Gabe a call. He and I can discuss the future of that old round barn another time. You take care.”
The few sips of tea I’ve taken sour and threaten to come back up.
Gabe called him, and they need to discuss the future of “that old round barn.” This can only mean one thing. They’re selling. How could Gabe do this? How could he betray me?
Before I even turn away from the field, I’m calling Gabe. I don’t care that it’s early. I don’t care that he’s probably still sleeping after his late night. He doesn’t pick up and the call goes to voice mail, so I dial again.
&nbs
p; “What’s wrong?” he asks, groggy, when he finally answers on the fourth ring.
“Who is Graham Briggs?”
“What? Who?”
“Graham Briggs. British accent. Doc Martens.”
There’s a moment of quiet and then: “Shit, Blue.”
“So you know this guy? You called him? He was telling the truth?”
“Where did you see Graham Briggs?”
“In the west field. Taking pictures of the round barn.”
“Oh, hell.”
“Gabe. Tell me the truth. Did you call this guy and ask him to come out and look at the property?”
“Blue, it’s not what you think.”
“Did you, or didn’t you?” I’m surprised at how high-pitched and shrieky my voice has become.
“Well, yes, I called him—”
I cut him off. I don’t want to hear his explanation, his excuses. I end the call. When he calls back seconds later, I hit the red X. Again. And again. Finally, I switch the phone off altogether.
I walk down to the round barn, where I run my hands across the rules and cry.
I trusted him. I let him in. I fell for him.
He’s selling the farm. He’s breaking my heart.
Chapter Forty-One
GABE
Fuck.
I throw my shit in a duffel and pound on the adjoining door to Chris’s suite. He’s still wearing glasses, a white T-shirt, and his boxers, so I know he hasn’t been up long.
“What the hell, Gabe? What’s wrong?” he asks.
“We have to get back home. Now.”
“What happened?” He backs up into his room, grabs his jeans, and tugs them on.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I say. “I’m so stupid. I called an architect.”
“What? You called an architect? And that’s the fucking emergency?”
“No, no. I called an architect. Graham Briggs. You know him? He’s the guy who designed the studio where Crackerjack recorded Heartbreak Holiday. You know, that old stone barn somewhere in England?”
“Vaguely. So what’s the problem?”
“I called him to come out and take a look at the round barn. For a recording studio. And this magazine—Architectural Influence—we’re in talks about them bankrolling the renovation for an exclusive series and documentary. But Graham Briggs lives in London. I wasn’t expecting him to just pop over on the weekend.”