Nashville 2 - Hammer and a Song by Inglath Cooper

in reality.
    And he’s gorgeous. Who wouldn’t be intimidated by that? But he’s also young. My age. And that makes him easier to talk to. Easier to be with in some ways. And then again, there’s that small difference of him not having a girlfriend looming in between us.
    “So the studio where we’re going,” Beck says, “is really cool. Bobby can pretty much write with whoever he wants considering his track record. And it’s deserved. At least that’s what my dad says.”
    “I think I know every song he’s ever written,” I say. “Are you sure it’s okay if I’m here?”
    “Positive. I checked with my dad.”
    It takes us twenty minutes or so to get there, the house not as far outside the city as Beck’s house. When we pull into the driveway, I spot the Ferrari, indicating that Case must already be here.
    Beck pulls up beside it, gets out and comes around to open my door.
    “Thanks,” I say, sliding out and trying to subdue the sudden flutter of butterflies in my stomach. “I’m nervous.”
    “Don’t be. Everything’s really laid back here.”
    The house isn’t nearly as grand as Case’s, but impressive all the same. It’s a classic brick style with an antiqued wood front door and a mammoth knocker shaped like a guitar.
    Beck knocks and a few seconds later, a pretty woman somewhere in her forties answers the door. Her smile is welcoming and we follow her through the house to a studio set up very much like the one at Beck’s house. It’s not as big though, and the equipment seems a little less fancy, more like the workhorse version.
    Case and the man I instantly recognize as Bobby Jenkins are sitting together at a round table. I saw him once in an interview on the country music channel. Both men have guitars on their laps. Beck introduces me.
    “It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Jenkins.” He’s older than I expect, maybe late fifties.
    “So glad you could be here.”
    “Thank you so much. Really.”
    Case told him about the recording session yesterday and how I’m part of a group called Barefoot Outlook. It sounds strange hearing it as if it’s really happening, and while I’d like to believe it’s true, it feels more like something made of toothpicks than beams.
    “Well, good luck to you,” he says.
    “You got anything you want to start with, Case?” he asks, picking up the guitar.
    “Just a phrase,” Case says. “Don’t have too much attached to it yet.”
    “What is it?”
    “Wishing time away.”
    Bobby nods. “Hmm. Yeah. See what we can do with that.” He throws out some angles, some kind of obvious, some not so much.
    I listen to the rally between them, mesmerized at the process and can’t help but think how much Holden would love this. The two of them are like miners, digging, sifting, rinsing, until they find the lines of gold nuggets that begin to form a verse, a chorus, a bridge. The pieces put together with such expertise that I can’t really imagine ever reaching this level of capability.
    The music they create fits the words perfectly, like a glove to a fine-boned hand.
    Three hours have passed when they push back their chairs and smile at each other.
    “Yeah,” Case says. “I like it.”
    “Me, too,” Bobby agrees.
    Beck and I glance at each other and smile. Neither of us has said a word since the start of the session, and I wonder how many times he has seen this done.
    They call it a wrap. We stand, and Case throws an arm around Beck’s shoulders, giving him a hug.
    Beck shakes hands with Bobby who looks at me and says, “Really glad you could be here.”
    “Thank you,” I say. “So much. It was a priceless experience.”
    He smiles at me and nods. When he doesn’t poo poo my extravagant praise, I wonder if someone had once done the same for him, someone who was really great at writing the same as he was.
    We’re in the car on the way back into town when I say, “That was really incredible, Beck. I don’t know how to thank you.”
    “I think