Page 44 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Freddie

“And this is Daphne here?” I ask, pointing to a little girl in the photo album spread out in front of me. She has her arm looped over Ivy’s shoulders, and she’s smiling wide. Ivy is easy to spot. Her wild curls were even wilder when she was a kid.

“Yeah. That was Ivy’s seventh birthday party,” Mrs. Conway says.

“Seems like they were really good friends,” I say as I turn another page.

Ivy was right—she really was a cute baby.

A cute kid too. But the photo albums I’m looking through tell me something much more important.

They draw a clear picture of a family who has always had fun together.

A lot of the pictures are totally random.

Unposed, candid shots that aren’t great quality but still seem to tell a big story.

The girls in the backyard or riding on a tractor or feeding the animals in their mom’s rescue.

There aren’t a lot of posed photos, which is what you see in photo albums at my house.

Professional quality photos of the four of us posing behind birthday cakes, posture rigid, fake smiles on our faces.

Those photos were important to my mom, and I don’t fault her for wanting to document our lives. But I get the sense Ivy’s family has so much fun on Christmas morning, they forget to take any pictures at all.

“So, Freddie,” Mrs. Conway says. “I have a question for you.”

I close the album and look up at her. Ivy might have her Dad’s curly hair, but she has her mom’s eyes.

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Now, I want to preface this by saying I don’t want to take advantage. I imagine you have people asking for things all the time. And that’s not what I’m trying to do here. But, well, not everyone gets the chance to have dinner with someone of your level of influence. So I’m shooting my shot.”

“Okay. Noted,” I say, more than a little intrigued by where this conversation might be going.

She takes a deep breath. “The other day, I came across an article about you and Ivy and your newly discovered romance…” She hesitates. “And it mentioned Daphne’s accident.”

My stomach drops into my shoes. “That shouldn’t have happened,” I say. “I have a publicist who is supposed to keep an eye on things—who should have?—”

She lifts a hand, cutting off my words. “I didn’t mention it to upset you.

Or to complain. It was bound to happen eventually, and the article didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.

They included a picture of the vehicle—they probably found that from the news articles that ran right after it happened—and that was pretty much it. ”

“Still, it had to be jarring to see it when you weren’t expecting to.”

Her expression softens. “It’s not how I like to remember Daphne, that’s for sure,” Mrs. Conway says.

“But it did get me thinking. We’ve been talking for years about doing something in Daphne’s name.

A foundation of some sort to promote education and awareness.

I don’t want teenagers to drink. Ever. But if they’re going to anyway, I’d like them to understand how it impacts their body.

Daphne was smart. She wouldn’t have climbed into that car if she’d thought she was in danger.

So she must have believed she was safe. That her boyfriend hadn’t had enough to drink for it to matter.

What if I’d sat her down and been more straightforward?

Told her what signs to look for. Insisted that any amount when you’re only eighteen is enough to make you a risk.

” She shrugs her shoulders. “I can’t bring Daphne back.

But I can talk about her. I can educate.

I also thought I could provide support for other families who have been through what we’ve been through. ”

“I think that’s an amazing idea,” I say.

“I also thought if people are going to be digging up things about her accident now that you and Ivy are together, maybe if we’re the ones talking about it, then we get to control the narrative. It can’t be a scandalous story if we’re the ones telling it.”

When Ivy asked me to kiss her outside Margot’s beach house, that’s exactly what she was thinking about. The importance of controlling the narrative.

“Now,” Mrs. Conway continues, “we’ve set a little money aside, so I’m not asking for financial support. But would it be shameless of me to ask for a little celebrity endorsement?”

My heart expands, and I almost get choked up. After so many years of feeling disdain from my own family, to feel like my chosen career path has only ever given them reasons to keep their distance, to have the Conways ask for help with something so personal means a lot.

They aren’t looking at me like I’m a liability—a reason their privacy will be violated. They’re seeing my platform as a benefit—a help to the good they want to accomplish.

“I would be honored to help,” I say. “Truly. Financially. Logistically. I have a lot of resources and an incredible team of attorneys and public relations people and marketing people. Anything you need—I probably have a connection to someone who could help.”

She smiles. “That would be amazing. Carina has a degree in nonprofit management, so I’m hoping she’ll eventually be able to help. As soon as we can afford to pay her something. But however much you want to be involved, we’d love to have your help too.”

We chat for a few more minutes about her vision for the foundation, then she gives me a huge hug, tells me how grateful she is to have me in her home, and sends me outside to wait for Ivy. I stop on my way and grab my guitar from where I left it in the entryway.

Even though Mrs. Conway didn’t think it was cause for concern, I still search for the news article that mentioned Daphne and forward it to Kat so she can be aware.

Mentally, I need to expand the circle of people who I think about when it comes to how and when I market my career.

Ivy belongs in that circle, but if this relationship goes somewhere, and every instinct tells me she’s who I want to spend the rest of my life with, her family needs to be in that inner circle too.

I pull my grandfather’s guitar out of its case and settle onto the wicker couch along the back wall of the screened-in porch.

This might be my new favorite place to sit. The furniture is worn and comfortable, the mountain air is cool and crisp even though it’s still technically summer, and the cicadas’ song is rolling through the trees like an undulating wave.

I love being at Conway Nursery as much as I’ve ever loved being anywhere, even after one afternoon. Maybe because I see Ivy in every part of this place.

I want it to be a part of me like it’s a part of her. I want to joke with her parents and hang out with her sister and kiss Ivy at the swimming hole a thousand more times.

But mostly I just want her.

I want her to be the first person I see when I wake up in the morning, and the last person I see before I go to sleep. I want to text her for no reason and kiss her because I can and insert the image of her into every love song I ever sing again.

I play through a few measures of “Golden Eyes,” nervous energy buzzing under my skin. When Ivy left with her dad, she went out this way, so I assume she’ll come back this way too.

I finish the song, then start another, this one a little less polished than “Golden Eyes,” but still mostly finished. It’ll take a few more weeks of work to lay down the final tracks, but I’m happy with where we’re headed. And it’s finally feeling fun again—easy in the best way possible.

When Ivy finally appears at the edge of the porch, my heart rate spikes and my hands start to tremble, fingers slipping off the guitar strings and making my next note falter.

She climbs the steps, then sits on the wicker couch across from me. “Something new?” she asks, tilting her head toward my guitar .

I play a few more measures. “Yeah. You like it?”

“I really do. Does it have words?”

“Some,” I say. “It isn’t finished yet.”

“It’s not the one you want to play for me?” she asks, and nerves make my stomach tighten.

“Nah, that one is finished.”

She bites her lip. “You gonna keep me in suspense?”

“Yes,” I say easily as I set down my guitar. I lean forward and prop my elbows on my knees.

She chuckles. “Why?”

I look up and meet her gaze. “Because I’m nervous. And I’d like you to tell me about your conversation with your dad.”

“Freddie Ridgefield is nervous?” she jokes. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

She’s not wrong. It’s been years since I’ve felt anything but adrenaline pumping through my veins when I perform. But this is different.

I offer her a pleading expression. “Please?”

She finally relents and spends a few minutes telling me about her conversation with her dad, about the arbor he built for her and how he hopes it will remind her of Daphne when she gets married.

Then I tell her about my conversation with her mom and her parents’ idea to start a foundation. This makes her cry a little, especially when I mention the part about Carina helping to run it.

“That would be so good for her,” Ivy says.

I nod. “I was thinking if I made a donation big enough to help cover employment expenses for the first couple of years, they could hire Carina sooner. I wanted to run that by you first, though. I didn’t mention it to your mom. ”

Ivy nods, her expression shifting in a way that tells me she’s puzzling through something logistical. I know that look well.

“We’d have to hire someone else too. Someone to train her and help her gain some on-the-ground experience. But I think it’s a brilliant idea.” She studies me closely. “Freddie, I’m sure Mom meant what she said about not needing any money. Are you sure you want to be a part of this?”

I lift my shoulders into a shrug. “I want to be a part of all of this. This place. Your family. Does that…overwhelm you?”

She leans over and cups a hand around my cheek, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “You never have been a man to do anything by halves. Now, sing to me. Please?”