There, looking down from the foyer balcony, Roy waited, a smile filling his face.
“So the prodigal son has come home. I was hoping when money was tight that you’d return.” He chuckled. “You have too much promise as a musician to spend your time playing taxi driver.” He motioned for Ben to join him, and Ben took the stairs two at a time.
For years Ben had found peace in doing simple tasks, delivering log furniture, driving the Amish, and working with his hands, but lately it hadn’t satisfied. Things couldn’t stay that way forever. If he ever hoped to marry—to provide for a family—he’d have to find something that paid better. Like a farmer being drawn back to the land, Ben returned to what he knew.
Roy squinted at his empty hands. “Did you bring your guitar?”
“Of course. It’s in the truck. Do you want me to get it?”
“Maybe later. The night’s still young. Come on in and make yourself comfortable.” Roy patted his shoulder, as Ben expected he would. There was no prodding, no questioning. Being with Roy was easy. No matter how much time passed, once he and his old friend were together, they were both just themselves.
Ben followed Roy into the second floor media room. The expansive space was bigger than the West Kootenai store. A theater screen filled one wall and six rows of leather couches faced it. On the far wall there was what appeared to be an ordinary door. What was behind it was more impressive than anything in the house—a complete recording studio that had been graced with the presence of many of music’s most popular stars. Roy had a way of finding new talent, knowing deep down in his gut who was going to hit it big. A million musicians no doubt wanted what Ben had. The honor of knowing Roy, calling him a friend.
Roy moved to the stainless steel fridge in the small kitchen area behind the sofas. “Can I get you something to drink? A beer?”
Ben shook his head. “No beer for me, but I’ll take a soda if you have it.”
“That’s right. You still sending out the letters?”
Ben nodded. “Every week. My old parole officer sends me an address of some kid who got caught with booze and I get to tell him or her Jason’s story. I write it out.”
“Sheesh, seems like you should just print up something on your computer, stick it in an envelope, and be done with it.” Roy approached, a cold soda in his hand.
Ben accepted it and sat on the white leather. “I thought about that. Would be easier, take less time, but I think they’ll pay more attention if they see it’s written by hand. Besides, no letter turns out the same. I always pray and ask God to tell me what to say. I know He gives me the words. I can’t bring Jason back, but maybe something I say will click.”
Roy nodded, then took a long swig of his beer. He looked at Ben, but Ben could tell he wasn’t interested in this conversation. Both of them knew why Ben had come—the only reason he’d return.
Roy sat on the next sofa over and kicked up his feet on the matching ottoman. “So what are you thinking? Ready to go on the road? I can get on the line and ring up some of your old gigs and fill out the calendar for most of the year.”
“Actually, as tempting as that is, I’d like to stick around here. At least until spring. Do you think I can get some local gigs? Try out some new stuff.”
“You’ve been writing?”
Ben nodded. “Got a few new songs.” He looked away. He had a few that were decent and one . . . one Roy would really like. The thing was, Ben didn’t know if he wanted to play that one for his friend. He pictured Marianna’s face. Pictured her smile. He’d written it for her and his plan had been for her to hear it first.
Ben swallowed hard. Of course, things weren’t turning out like he’d hoped. Marianna wouldn’t listen to any of his music since it wasn’t the Amish way. Then there was the matter of her friend from Indiana. Ben still didn’t know what to think about
“So the prodigal son has come home. I was hoping when money was tight that you’d return.” He chuckled. “You have too much promise as a musician to spend your time playing taxi driver.” He motioned for Ben to join him, and Ben took the stairs two at a time.
For years Ben had found peace in doing simple tasks, delivering log furniture, driving the Amish, and working with his hands, but lately it hadn’t satisfied. Things couldn’t stay that way forever. If he ever hoped to marry—to provide for a family—he’d have to find something that paid better. Like a farmer being drawn back to the land, Ben returned to what he knew.
Roy squinted at his empty hands. “Did you bring your guitar?”
“Of course. It’s in the truck. Do you want me to get it?”
“Maybe later. The night’s still young. Come on in and make yourself comfortable.” Roy patted his shoulder, as Ben expected he would. There was no prodding, no questioning. Being with Roy was easy. No matter how much time passed, once he and his old friend were together, they were both just themselves.
Ben followed Roy into the second floor media room. The expansive space was bigger than the West Kootenai store. A theater screen filled one wall and six rows of leather couches faced it. On the far wall there was what appeared to be an ordinary door. What was behind it was more impressive than anything in the house—a complete recording studio that had been graced with the presence of many of music’s most popular stars. Roy had a way of finding new talent, knowing deep down in his gut who was going to hit it big. A million musicians no doubt wanted what Ben had. The honor of knowing Roy, calling him a friend.
Roy moved to the stainless steel fridge in the small kitchen area behind the sofas. “Can I get you something to drink? A beer?”
Ben shook his head. “No beer for me, but I’ll take a soda if you have it.”
“That’s right. You still sending out the letters?”
Ben nodded. “Every week. My old parole officer sends me an address of some kid who got caught with booze and I get to tell him or her Jason’s story. I write it out.”
“Sheesh, seems like you should just print up something on your computer, stick it in an envelope, and be done with it.” Roy approached, a cold soda in his hand.
Ben accepted it and sat on the white leather. “I thought about that. Would be easier, take less time, but I think they’ll pay more attention if they see it’s written by hand. Besides, no letter turns out the same. I always pray and ask God to tell me what to say. I know He gives me the words. I can’t bring Jason back, but maybe something I say will click.”
Roy nodded, then took a long swig of his beer. He looked at Ben, but Ben could tell he wasn’t interested in this conversation. Both of them knew why Ben had come—the only reason he’d return.
Roy sat on the next sofa over and kicked up his feet on the matching ottoman. “So what are you thinking? Ready to go on the road? I can get on the line and ring up some of your old gigs and fill out the calendar for most of the year.”
“Actually, as tempting as that is, I’d like to stick around here. At least until spring. Do you think I can get some local gigs? Try out some new stuff.”
“You’ve been writing?”
Ben nodded. “Got a few new songs.” He looked away. He had a few that were decent and one . . . one Roy would really like. The thing was, Ben didn’t know if he wanted to play that one for his friend. He pictured Marianna’s face. Pictured her smile. He’d written it for her and his plan had been for her to hear it first.
Ben swallowed hard. Of course, things weren’t turning out like he’d hoped. Marianna wouldn’t listen to any of his music since it wasn’t the Amish way. Then there was the matter of her friend from Indiana. Ben still didn’t know what to think about
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