Page 26 of Resonance
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Ryder and Iona’splace was set off a highway just outside of Fayetteville. I’d been once and seen it in various magazines a half dozen times over the years. The entrance was familiar, though the trees had grown tall, lofting above the drive and spreading in an elegant welcome to their farmhouse spread on steroids. They had horses, a working farm that they themselves didn’t work. Somewhere in the sprawl was a bowling alley. An indoor pool. I remembered studying the pictures in a magazine, thinking maybe I hadn’t known Ryder as well as I’d thought. He’d never been extravagant with me. But maybe that’s what happened when you got wealthy beyond belief and there wasn’t any reason not to have any damn thing you wanted. I’d felt the bitter sting for a long time, but as I pulled down that driveway, it didn’t hit exactly the way I expected it to. Instead, through a vague sense of sadness, I found myself watching Owen, curious what his reaction would be.
The snow was no more than a fringe of white on the grass, and Owen cracked his window, drawing in a deep lungful of chilly, pine-scented air as I guided the truck slowly up the drive.
“What do you think, Sidewinder?”
“Sidewinder, huh?”
“You were wiggling all over that goddamn bed last night.”
“I don’t know how you noticed, taking up two-thirds of it. It was like sleeping with an ogre.” His lips quirked as he looked back out the window. “It’s my first time in Arkansas. For some reason, every time I go to a new state, I think it’ll smell different. Like there’s this clear scent boundary for different places.” He glanced my way and gave me a self-conscious smile. “I know that sounds dumb. One of those childhood things that carried over, I guess. But sometimes I think it’s real. Texas, for instance. Smells like sun and dust. And Tennessee, pungent green and dark soil, like the loose kind you put in a flower bed.”
“Yeah?” I was kinda charmed by the oddity of it. “So what’s the verdict on Arkansas, then, Mr. Oenophile of geography?”
Owen grinned. “Not sure yet. Something like tall grass, and there’s a little bit of pine scent and wet dirt.”
Smelled like regret to me. Regret I hadn’t told Iona to find someone else, because as we got closer to the house, I didn’t feel like I had any business being here, touching all of Ryder’s shit, being dragged down a dusty memory lane treacherous with potholes I’d forgotten the locations of.
“You have a smell, too,” Owen mused. “I mean, everyone does, obviously, but maybe no one pays attention to it the way I do.”
“Why do you pay so much attention to it?”
Owen twisted in his seat to face me, pensive for a moment, then shrugged. “I always have. My first memories are smells. I can still remember the smell of this blanket I loved as a kid and dragged around with me everywhere.”
“Very Linus of you.”
He snickered. “I know. I wore it down to a nub, and the scent wasn’t even all that nice in between it getting washed, but it smelled likemine.” He fiddled with a strand of hair, rubbing the golden sheen between his fingertips. “Ru smells like cedar and mint, Ivy’s like coffee grounds and cinnamon.”
I quirked a brow. “And? Who else gets their own scent?”
“See, you’re into it now, dying to know what I’ve assigned you.” He laughed. “Oh yeah, look at you trying to fight it, Mr. Cool, playing casual.”
“Nah. I had an itch.” I rubbed a thumb over my jaw demonstratively.
“Mm-hmm. Well, I’m not gonna tell you now.”
“I’m sure that’s my loss,” I deadpanned, and shifted the truck into park at the top of the drive.
Iona emerged on the front stoop of the large farmhouse as Owen and I got out and stretched. They’d added on since the lastPeoplespread. There was now a meeting of modern and classic in the glass-and-wood wing that stretched off one side of the house, somehow seamlessly incorporated with the rest of the structure.
Iona, too, had changed, had grown softer in the decade plus since I’d last seen her. More flesh to her cheeks, evidence of Botox in the smoothness of her forehead. But still as beautiful as she’d always been.
She lifted a hand to us, then wrapped her arms tightly around her shoulders as we retrieved our bags and headed toward her.
“Been a while, stranger.” She greeted me with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. It tried, though, same as mine.
“A little bit, yeah.” I set down my bag, and we did an empty shuffle of social politics before seeming to silently agree on a stiff hug. She patted my shoulder a couple of times before stepping away, her gaze flitting to Owen.
His eyes were bright as he pumped her hand vigorously. “It’s such an honor to meet you. When you did ‘Southern Cry’ with Ryder… I mean Mr. Preston… it was so great. That big soaring chorus and the almost raspy-sad quality of your voice, it just… wow. It was golden. A perfectly golden sound. Like light made into song—except that doesn’t really happen, I guess.” He glanced down and let go of her hand with a self-deprecating laugh, while I drew in a long breath and held it to keep my mouth shut.
Iona glanced over at me, eyes twinkling, before looking back at Owen. “I’m honored it made such an impression on you.”
“Oh, it did. After that I listened to your two solo albums and loved them, too. Especially ‘Morning Call.’ That was one of the first songs I learned on the guitar. Of course, I don’t sing anything like you, but it’s the thought, right? I—” He snapped his mouth shut and flashed her another quicksilver smile. “It’s just really nice to meet you, is all,” he finished softly.
“It’s mutual.” She grinned and waved us inside, where we stood in the foyer, surrounded by rustic plank flooring probably reclaimed from somewhere suitably noteworthy. Another woman appeared, younger than Iona and wearing jeans and a long-sleeved tee.
“I had Bridget make up a couple of beds for y’all. The rooms are close to each other. You’re welcome to anything in the house. I figured you could get settled and then I’ll take you down.”