by Ava Miles
“I’ll go call them right now,” Caitlyn exclaimed. “Wait, what time is it in California?” She checked her watch. “Too early. But Michaela… Who knows where she is? I’ll call her and see if she picks up.” Her feet were already taking her to the doorway, like she was walking on a cloud. “Oh, I forgot.” She ran back and kissed Beau on the lips.
Clara grinned while Arthur rolled his eyes.
“Good luck songwriting,” she said, dancing out of Beau’s reach.
“I think I’ve found my stride,” Beau said, inclining his chin.
Good sex would do that to a man. “Well, Clara and I are going to head out for a walk before it gets too hot.” Arthur took her arm and led her to the doorway where Caitlyn was standing. “We’ll see you two later.”
The moment they were out of range, Clara elbowed him again. “What was that whole thing about Rhett knowing Beau?”
“Caitlyn is in love with that man, Clara,” he told her, walking them to the front door. “I owe it to her family to check him out. It’s what a responsible matchmaker does.”
The sun was blazing in the sky as they ambled across the lawn. His nostrils twitched at the smell of lavender. God, it smelled like a bubble bath every time he stepped outside. Would it still smell like that after the lavender was harvested? God, he hoped it wouldn’t smell like pig shit or something worse. Sure, he hadn’t embraced this whole perfume thing yet, but Ibrahim was fascinating, he had to admit. Maybe he would ask him more questions about perfume and discover what all the fuss was about.
“Hargreaves vouched for Beau to me,” Clara told him as that darn baby goat started running toward them.
“He’s a good judge of character,” Arthur said. “Now, Clara, we are not taking the goat home.”
She lowered herself to one knee and hugged its spotted white and brown neck. Gosh, it was a cute thing, he had to admit, but still…
“Did I say anything about adopting him?” she asked, blinking those big blue eyes at him.
“No, but I’m only saying. Come on, let’s walk.”
She patted Chou-Chou one last time before linking arms with Arthur. “You know,” she said, “I was thinking about taking a short overnight trip to see a few places a little farther afield. Nice. Marseilles. It’s been ages since I’ve been in this part of France, and I’m remembering all the reasons I love it.”
“And it will give Caitlyn and Beau more time alone,” he said, shaking his head. Always plotting, his Clara. “Are you planning on inviting Ibrahim along?”
“I had thought about it, but he’s working in his lab here.” She released his arm so she could stretch in the sun, the sight making his mouth water. “I’ll think of something.”
“Keep stretching like that and I’ll think of something.” He turned and looked at her, letting her see how much he desired and loved her.
“That’s what naps are for, my dear,” she said, stopping and kissing him on the mouth. “I’ll talk to Hargreaves when we get back.”
Of course she would, but he didn’t care where they went as long as she was by his side.
* * *
Beau’s songwriting went like clockwork, and he filled the pages of his legal pad. When the sun was hot overhead, Chou-Chou trotted over to him and lay at his feet, bleating to the music of his guitar.
“Sometimes Country, Sometimes Confident” flowed out of him, the chorus scrawled in his chicken scratch.
I’m sometimes country, sometimes confident.
Let the soothing creek of my youth rise in me today.
Tomorrow let me put on city digs and have a rosé.
I’m the same man.
Sometimes country, sometimes confident.
He knew some people were going to laugh at the rosé part, but he didn’t care. It was true. His truth. And he was tired of holding it in.
Setting all judgment aside, he let the bitter words he’d been storing up inside him spill out onto the paper. Eyes stinging, he dug the pen into the paper hard enough to tear through.
Damn her, those roots were false.
Like furniture nailed down to the floor.
She was afraid they’d topple over with a good whirl.
She was afraid I’d root them out.
Rip them up and throw them out.
I wasn’t the man I thought I’d be.
But she can’t root out the truth of me.
Her lies were but a mystery.
Damn her, those roots were false.
Have to find the truth of me.
Have to seek out the best in me.
Have to plant new roots.
I want to damn her.
I hope someday I can thank her.
But dammit, Mama…
Those roots were false.
The words blurred on the page when he finished, and he broke down, emptying the pain to make room for something new, the fullness of being he was starting to feel with Caitlyn. Chou-Chou ambled up and laid his head against his chest, and he accepted the comfort.
“Oh, Mama,” he whispered, letting the bone-deep pain sink into the ground.
When he was hollowed out, he fell back in the hot sun and let its rays soak into him, enliven him. The lavender spikes swayed in the breeze, not knowing their flowers would soon be harvested. Beau realized he was harvesting part of himself now. These songs were about turning his pain into something new. He was healing from the roots up.
“Sunshine in Her Eyes” came next. Most of the lyrics were already swirling around in his head. Like the rays pouring into him, he let his love for Caitlyn radiate out from his heart and onto the page. He had a new refrain after last night, and the power of it stole his breath.
But she isn’t only sunshine.
She’s moonlight.
And every kind of light in between.
She fills up all the dark places.
Helps me see the truth.
Her light has changed me.
And I hope it rains on me for the rest of my life.
He stared at the page, his handwriting calmer, easier to read for this song. Peace rolled through him like the breeze over the land, and he let it fill him. Gazing out across the fields, he could see himself coming out here with Caitlyn later, walking hand and hand in the moonlight. He hoped they’d be coming here for many years, and it didn’t shock him to see an image in his mind of a little boy and girl running ahead of them in the fields. He didn’t have all the answers. But he knew he wanted Caitlyn.
His phone rang, a harsh sound in the quiet, and he set his guitar aside and dug it out of his back pocket. It was Dr. Clarridge, and his chest turned into crushed metal. She had answers for him. Was he ready? He firmed his shoulders, put a hand on Chou-Chou, and answered.
“Dr. Clarridge,” he said, his voice cracking, and for a singer that was something. “You have your findings already?”
“Yes, Beau,” she said. “First, there were no DNA matches to your sample, I’m afraid. I thought it best to say that up front.”
Disappointment hollowed out his stomach. He hadn’t realized how much he’d let himself hope. “Thanks for trying, Dr. Clarridge.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t bear fruit. Now for the good news. I know you had concerns about Walt Masters’ alcoholism, and I can assure you that your sample shows no trace of the genetic component of that disease.”
“Good,” he said, feeling an old shadow lift from him.
“I imagine the other health aspects aren’t your highest priority right now. You can read about them in the report. Suffice it to say you have good genes, as we’d say in layman’s terms.”
“Great,” he said. “But you’re right, I’m more interested in what you learned about my ancestry, mostly on my father’s side.” His heart was tripping in his chest. He knew his mother’s people were from Europe, but not much more than that.
“Beau, I took extra time to review your genetic profile, sifting out what you didn’t think came from your mother. Without a sample from her, we’re doi
ng some speculating, sure, but I used what we know from mapping other people with similar genetic characteristics. In the end, it wasn’t difficult to draw some conclusions. Like you thought, your mother’s ancestry is likely all northern European—Scottish, English, Irish, and a little Germanic. This is also in my report.”
He held his breath. “And the rest?”
“Keep in mind this is what we call ethnicity estimation. Since I don’t have a sample from your natural father, I can only go off of yours. Also, genetic tests aren’t maps. They can’t specifically tell us what country someone was from, but the sample you provided does give us a lead. Your genetic profile shows a strong ancestral influence from Spain and what we call indigenous areas. In the latter case, I’d postulate the people of what is now central America. Basically, you’re half Spanish, Beau. Whether he’s originally from Spain or Mexico or even Argentina, I just can’t say.”
He remembered Colette and her husband debating the possibility.
“This is…big news, Doc.” His mama had insisted they were ‘pure-blood’ white when he’d asked what to pencil in as his ethnicity on a standardized test in school. She’d made a big deal out of it. Gotten so flustered her face had turned red. He’d known early on she was prejudiced, and he hadn’t liked it. It made sense now. She was protecting her secret. Perhaps she was even ashamed. But that wasn’t on him. He didn’t judge people based on what language they spoke or the color of their skin, and frankly, he never had understood it.
“I don’t know anything about that Spanish part of me,” he said, running his hand through the loose dirt in the fields. “They have their own language and culture, and I don’t know anything about it.”
“Ethnicity is a strong influence, according to many social scientists, and even when someone doesn’t know exactly where they are from or they weren’t raised in that culture, it’s common to feel like something is missing.”
Had he? He certainly hadn’t felt connected to Walt Masters, but he’d always attributed it to him being a horrible father. God, he wanted answers. “Is there anything else that you found, Doc? Beyond what you’ll send in the report.”
“No, Beau, that’s as far as this part of the science will take us. If your mother changes her mind, we can mine a little more information. I’ll send the report over.”
She wouldn’t change it. She’d made that clear. Depression settled over him like a cloak.
“I understand that,” he said. “Thank you, Doc.”
“You’re most welcome, Beau.”
“I’m in France right now, Doc. Can you send it here?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “I love France. What part are you in? Paris?”
“No, Provence. I’m sitting in a lavender field actually, writing songs.”
“I need to get your job,” she said, laughing. “I’m sitting in a lab without windows. Enjoy your songwriting. I know all your fans will be happy to hear the new album, me included.”
“I didn’t know you were a fan, Doc. I’ll make sure to send something over to you for your kindness.”
“It’s my job, and I’m happy to help, but thank you all the same.”
“See ya, Doc.”
He dropped his phone and put his head in his hands. He was half Spanish—or Hispanic. Did it matter really? He found it did. Pulling out his phone, he began to research all things Spanish, and when he got bogged down in the history and geography, he turned to its music. He found an article about the flamenco guitar’s classic, distinctive sound, accompanied by a picture. He remembered Hargreaves tuning in to that music in the car and mentioning he’d once played the instrument.
That was the place to start. He searched online until he found the perfect Spanish guitar and then had it shipped to the farmhouse. Would Hargreaves teach him? It wouldn’t hurt to ask.
Beau picked up his equipment and headed back to the farmhouse. Chou-Chou followed him back to the house, and he bade the baby goat goodbye in the front yard. The temperature in the house was shades cooler, and Beau realized he’d been in the sun for hours. Hadn’t he always tanned easily? People used to comment on his golden skin growing up, and his mama had always said he’d been blessed not to burn like she did. That was from his Spanish blood, he now knew. Anger burned in him, this new information adding fuel to an already raging fire. She’d lied about so much. Soon he would have to face her again, but not quite yet.
The house was quiet, and he cocked his ear for any chatter. Where was everybody? Caitlyn was probably working, and he wondered if he could interrupt her. No, he’d eat a snack first. Heading to the kitchen, he found Arthur Hale sitting at the table.
“You were out there so long I had to promise Clara I’d bring you some water if you went another hour,” the older man said, setting aside the tablet he’d been reading on.
“With the lavender being harvested soon, I wanted to soak it all up,” he said. “I never expected to love it this much. Where’s the rest of the crew?”
“Clara talked Caitlyn into going to town. Shopping. Hargreaves has his nose in a book, I imagine. How did your songwriting go?”
He set his guitar on the ground and held up his legal pad. “Struck gold, I think. Got out of my own way finally.” But he’d need to process this new information about his roots and consider how to work it into a song for his new album. “Do you know where Hargreaves is, sir?”
The refrigerator showered cool air on his hot face when he opened it and pulled out the ever-present cheese plate.
“He’s probably reading in his room,” Arthur said. “It’s his favorite pastime. I’m still searching for my new one after retiring, but Clara is a good help. I like to tell her she’s my new hobby.” He laughed.
Beau plucked an apple out of the basket on the counter, biting into it as he selected a hunk of sharp cheese from the plate. “I expect she likes hearing that.”
“She does,” the man said. “You know I talked to my friend, Rhett Butler, earlier. He said you were a good guy to know. I’ll admit I was happy to hear that. My niece is very taken with you, and I wanted to make sure she was in good company.”
Beau studied the man before taking a seat at the table. “I’m glad you checked up on me. Despite current events, I’m usually a pretty stable guy. I’d like you to believe I’m good for Caitlyn because I’m in love with her.”
“You know, I’ve been a journalist most of my adult life, and I’ve researched everything online about you for answers about this…lack of stability as you call it. Couldn’t find anything.”
Never say the old were rusty. This man was sharp as a tack. “It’s not public. I only told Caitlyn a few days ago.”
“I see,” Arthur said, pulling off his reading glasses and setting them on the table. “You need any help with making it public, I’d be happy to write an article for you. Not to brag, but you’ve won Grammys, I’ve won Pulitzers. Since you matter to Caitlyn, you matter to me.”
His offer of support echoed that of Hargreaves. Suddenly Beau couldn’t swallow another bite of apple. “You don’t even know me.”
“Doesn’t matter. I saw the way you look at each other. I figure that’s when a couple needs to know they have people around them to help ground their relationship. In the beginning, it’s nice to have one’s family and friends on your side.”
His mama wouldn’t be on his side, Beau suddenly realized, and he turned his head so Arthur wouldn’t see the emotion in his eyes. “I appreciate that, sir. More than ever right now.”
Arthur stood and patted him on the back. “I’m going up for a lie-down before Clara gets back. That woman would burn the candle at both ends if I let her. I’ll send Hargreaves down if he’s willing.”
He was out of the kitchen before Beau could say anything. But honestly, he didn’t know what to say. When Hargreaves appeared minutes later, he wasn’t surprised.
“Master Arthur said you were looking for me, sir,” he said, his hands folded calmly over his front.
“I’m receiv
ing a flamenco guitar tomorrow, Hargreaves,” he said, turning in his chair. “Since you heard me on the phone yesterday, I might as well tell you. I found out my real father is of Spanish ancestry; no idea what country, but I thought I might try to connect to my roots through music. Would you…teach me what you remember while I’m here?” Somehow it was easier to tell this man the truth because he didn’t ask any questions. He knew without asking that Hargreaves would take any secrets he told him to the grave. He’d tell Caitlyn everything later when she returned.
Hargreaves’ smile widened before falling back into its normal space. “I’d be honored, sir.”
“Beau, please,” he said, feeling indebted.
The man bowed and said, “Yes, sir.”
Beau chuckled. “I’ll bet I can out-sir you, Hargreaves. Being from the South, it’s drilled into us at birth.” Birth. His real father hadn’t been at his. Did he even know Beau existed? The questions never ended.
“I’d be happy to see you try, sir,” Hargreaves said. “I’ll leave you to your repast.”
He disappeared, and Beau took the opportunity to raise his arms up. In the midst of defeats, he’d received a victory. He was going to learn how to play Spanish guitar.
For the first time since he’d learned the truth, he felt more powerful. He remembered Ibrahim’s question to him and he knew how to answer it, albeit partially.
A good man makes the best out of what he’s given.
Chapter 20
Caitlyn opened her bedroom door to listen when she heard the rapid strands of guitar. Hargreaves was giving Beau another lesson, like he had for the last four days. She couldn’t put her gratitude for Aunt Clara’s faithful butler into words. Since Beau had discovered his Spanish ancestry, he’d been laser-focused on three things: her, songwriting, and flamenco guitar. In that order.