Page 37 of I’m Not Yours

He sung part of a song about a perfect woman, but he couldn’t marry her, he had to open the door and run, the world was there to live in, not hide from.

The chorus was about mountaintops, rushing rivers, and adventures.

“I know that song! It’s called ‘Running for the Rivers’ by Jordy Daniels. He won an award for that.”

“Yep, you’re right.”

“Sure fits your situation, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Do you like country music?”

“I love it, listen to it all the time. Do you know this song?” He hummed a few bars, then sang the words.

“Yes! That’s ‘Tough Caroline Baker,’ about a woman who slugs it out in bars to cover a hurting heart. I love that one, too.”

“And this song . . .”

His voice rose, strong and deep.

I laughed and sang along with him about the cheating boyfriend who was locked up in jail for running naked through the streets, his girlfriend threatening to shoot him from behind and “blast his butt to Jupiter.”

“That is one of my all-time favorite songs.”

“Mine, too. So, lovely June, you know I am a rancher.”

“I know, cowboy. And by the way, you make the most excellent French toast.”

“Thank you. My granddad taught me. But I have another job, too.”

“Let me guess.” I tapped my forehead. “You’re a cowboy clothes model.”

“Not even close, but thank you.”

“You’re a secret high heel shoe designer.”

“I wear cowboy boots and beach sandals. That’s about all I know about shoes.”

“Hmmm . . .” I studied him. “You’re a kindergarten teacher.”

He simply laughed at that one, then hummed a few bars of another country song.

“That’s ‘Cowboy Lady.’ ” I sang the next two verses, about a lady that was tougher than men and no man could catch her, she rode hard and long, her heart broken way back when.

“So, June, when I’m not out on my ranch, or hanging out at the beach with a girl who wears lace, I write country songs.”

I stopped. “You do?”

“Yep.”

“For fun, right? You make up your own songs?”

“I do make up my own songs.”

“Ah. Sing me one.”

“I did. I sang you a few.”

I put my fork down, hard as it was to stop eating that scrumptious French toast with powdered sugar. “I am not understanding this.”

“The songs I sang you, I wrote.”

More confusion. “But those songs are sung by huge country stars.”

“I guess they want to sing my words.”

I couldn’t get a grip on this one. “Are you kidding?”

“Nope. I’m not.”

Seeing my shock, he stood up and brought over his laptop. He typed in his name and millions of hits came up, along with photos of him.

Reece O’Brien was a famous country music songwriter. “You didn’t Google me, did you?” he asked.

Oh. My. Golly. There he was. “No, I didn’t.”

“I Googled you. I love your website, June, the photos of all the wedding dresses, bridesmaids’ dresses, you, Estelle, Leoni, your studio. Can I see it soon? I feel like I’ve been able to take a step into your mind through your studio, but I want to know more, how it works, how you think—”

“Thank you, but—” I ran my hands through my hair. “You’re a country songwriter.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you’re here? You came to write? I would think you would live in Nashville or L.A.”

“I’m in and out of both cities, and I do go to my ranch. I came here for new scenery, but for the first time in my life I find myself distracted.” He leaned toward me and I caught my breath.

“Want to hear my next song, June?”

“Yes, of course.” I couldn’t quite believe this one, my mind all baffled up. He wrote country songs?

Reece went into the house, came back with his guitar, and strummed.

The song had an upbeat melody, a come and clap your hands to this one tune. It was about a woman with blond locks who wore lace and loved tide pools, sunsets, and watching the weather roll over the waves. She believed that getting up early in the morning should be illegal. She had a temper.

His baritone voice rolled over and around me, snug and huggable, then burrowed deep, deep inside.

“What do you think?” he asked, and I could tell he cared. He cared what I thought of his song.

I was so touched, I could hardly get my throat to work. “I think that the woman with blond locks who wears lace and loves sunsets will love it.”

He was silent for a second and we had one of those moments, close, raw, and romantic, where we were the only two people at the beach, the only two people anywhere. “Good. I want her to love it.”

“She does.” I tried to catch my breath.

“June.” He threaded his fingers between mine. “He loves it, too.”

My soul did a heel-kicking dance, a rush of joy tripped around my body, and tears flooded my eyes.

And there we sat, the sunset a grand artist’s display, our French toast covered in syrup and powdered sugar.

“Are you almost ready, June?” Mr. Schone said, his voice crackling with age over the phone.

I love Mr. Schone, Mrs. Schone, too, although I dreaded his calls. They own the blue cottage that I’ve been renting. They live up the street. I hike up once a week to check on them. I recently brought Mrs. Schone swatches of intricate lace for her tables because she loves them.

“I am so sorry to press you on this one, my dear, but my begonia is not feeling well, and I do need to get her off the coast by winter . . .”

His “begonia” was his wife of sixty years. Mrs. Schone needed to move. Her health wasn’t good. She was one of the kindest people I have ever met, but she was weak and frail and they wanted to be near their two daughters who lived down south.

“Mr. Schone, I am so sorry, but I don’t have enough money to buy this house.

” Even saying the words aloud, which I’d said to him several times, hurt.

I wanted my blue cottage. I loved the creaking staircase, huge windows, the deck outside, and the flat roof over the garage that I sat on underneath a red and white striped umbrella.

It was the home of my heart, but I didn’t have near enough money to buy it without the equity from my Portland house.

“Please put it up for sale with a realtor. I’ll get it cleaned and organized so you can move. ”

“Keep trying, my dear, keep trying. We can wait a few months. You’re who we want to sell the house to. My begonia wants to know that you’ll be in our home, it makes her happy. . . .” I wanted to make the begonia happy, too.

I so did. For her, and for me. We hung up after a few minutes.

I hoped they called the realtor. I would lose the house to someone else, but they needed to move. I thought of Mrs. Schone. I would make her a lace wrap for her shoulders. She would feel pretty in that.

“Hi, June,” Morgan said, her NASA helmet on her head. “I’m going to read you some information on spaceships while you sew.”

“Superb. I can always learn more.”

She put down her pen and clipboard. “You know, June, I don’t fit in with the other kids at school.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever fit in, kiddo.” I gave her a hug. “Don’t try to fit in. Be yourself. List ten things you like about yourself. If you force yourself to be someone you’re not, you will be one unhappy caterpillar.”

“Yeah. I know.” She fiddled with her white space gloves. “A lot of the other kids have dads.”

“They do. But you have the coolest mother on the planet.”

“She is pretty cool. Do you think my dad would like me if he saw me again?”

“Definitely. What’s more important is, do you think you would like him ?”

She didn’t say anything for a minute. “I don’t know. He left us. I’m going to have to think about that.”

“Okay.” I hurt to see Morgan hurt. What hurt the most was seeing her emotional dependence on a father who had skipped out of town, oblivious to the demolition he had brought to her life.

He did not deserve her adolation. “Remember that supersmart kids like you can open the door to a world filled with adventure. Like the adventures you’ll have at NASA.

Now, tell me about the wings of a space shuttle. ”

“It’s incredible,” he said, his voice low. “Incredible.”

Reece the chariot rider sat on a stool in the middle of my yellow studio. My French doors were open, the stars up and twinkling over the crashing waves, the lights of two fishing boats flashing in the distance.

“I am absolutely in awe, June.”

Amidst the lace, flounce, silkiness, and sewing machines he looked steamrollingly masculine. Hard-core man. Sexy and huge. He was a manly man in a woman’s territory, yet in some incongruous way . . . he fit in.

“I . . . well, I have to be around color.” I thought of the colors in the home I shared with Grayson: Beige. Black. Soul-deadening. “Color helps me to think, and bright and interesting things— whether they’re bird nests or a collection of odd teapots—help me create.”

“I understand. I do.” He nodded, and I knew he did understand. We’re both creative; he got it.

“You are amazingly talented, June. This whole studio, these dresses . . .” He shook his head, indicating the mannequins that were draped with August’s wedding dress and our bridesmaids’ dresses. “Wow. That’s all I can say, wow. How do you make a wedding dress?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I want to know.”

“But you’re a . . . you’re a man.”

“Yes. Last time I looked.” He ran a hand through that thick blondish hair. “Could have changed on the long walk over from my place to yours, but I think not. Shall I check?”

Whew! Another graphic image! I shut that one out.

“No, no checking.” I took a wobbly breath. “Okay, I’ll make it short, don’t want to bore you right out of your skull.”

“I won’t be bored. Start with what you do when someone calls and wants a wedding dress.”

I told him. I watched him closely for signs of nauseating boredom and acute distress.

I watched to make sure his eyes didn’t glaze over and he didn’t fall asleep, his head banging on my work table.

None of that occurred. He wanted to know how my ideas sparked to life, how I worked, thought, imagined. The conversation was a huge turn-on.

Grayson hadn’t even wanted to know about my sewing, calling it “June’s 1950s backwards housewife hobby.”