Page 38 of A Country Kind Of Love

Peyton throws a bag of chips from the entrance table; it’s the closest thing she can find. It bounces off the back of Cleo’s outstretched hand and bursts all over the floor.

Great.

“I’ll getthe broom.”

?

“How’s that?” Cleo asks as Peyton consciously licks her lips. According to Cleo hot chicken is a Nashville delicacy. Peyton’s research describes it as a cayenne-peppered fried chicken and promises when ordered from the right spot it is a game changer. It’s just chicken. How different can it be from what she can order inCalifornia?

“Wow.”

“Good, right?”

“This is incredible.” Peyton mumbles. Medium hot did the trick, any spicier and she would be on her knees.

“I told you.” Cleo gathers up the empty takeaway containers. “A few years back one of my friends gotextra hot.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yeah, there was no tellinghim though.”

“What happened?”Peyton asks.

“We ended up in the emergency room. Stomach cramps, vomiting, heartburn, he thought he was dying. He hasn’t done it since.” Cleo chuckles. “We laugh about it now.”

After two unsuccessful hours trying to write a song, ordering food was the breakthey needed.

“Shall we try again?”Peyton asks.

Cleo nods.

“You can sit in the pod of creativity this time.” Peyton smirks.

Cleo plonks herself down in the brown leather egg chair, guitar in hand, she adjusts her position and starts to strum the melody they’ve been playing with sinceshe arrived.

“Something doesn’t feel right.” Peyton taps the pen against her lip. The last seven pages of her notebook are full of scribbles, but with each song she hits a brick wall after the first verse. She has the chorus for one song, but the bridge doesn’t feel right. She has a random verse for another song, but the melody for the chorus isn’t manifesting. One page simply says,Song for Cleo,and nothing else.

It’sa disaster.

“What did we have for the verse on the first song we tried? Maybe we can tweak that. It sounded good to start with,” Cleo says.

Peyton flicks back to the first page. The words don’t resonate; they’re too generic. Peyton hates that. It could be a hit, but she likes to feel the music that she writes. She likes it to have meaningand passion.

“The first verse goes like this...

You come from the hills of Tennessee, and you’re living the American dream. Singing in the bright lights of Broadway, touring the dance halls your own way...”

Peyton reads the lyrics out loud several times. She alters the tempo each time as she tries to connect with the words.

“Just play something simple for me, maybe... C, D minor, G, and C.”

“Yes, ma’am.”Cleo grins.

Peyton sings the lyrics again.

Nothing.

“You try,” she says to Cleo. “This is your song, so if you connect withit, great.”