to climb into that tub with a glass of wine and soak till I shrivel up like a prune.”
“It’s big enough for two,” Bree commented. “Jake and I tested it.”
Jenny laughed. “Of course you did.”
“Well, I needed him to see how essential it was to have one put into our house.”
“The experiment paid off?”
“Oh, yeah,” Bree said, her cheeks turning pink. “Just so you know, we raced home to our own bed. That fancy king-size bed in your place hasn’t been slept in.”
“Good to know,” Jenny replied, amused by their sense of decorum. “Now, can we focus on these lyrics? What do you think of what I’ve written so far?”
“They’re amazing,” Bree said enthusiastically. “They capture the tone of the play and the whole holiday spirit in exactly the right way. I can’t wait for the cast to hear them. The professionals will be here next week. I’ve already been doing readings with the locals since it takes them a little longer to nail down their lines. Think you can have these songs polished up by Monday? That’ll give us three full weeks of rehearsals. We open three days before Christmas and run through New Year’s Eve. No shows on Christmas Eve or Christmas day, though.”
“Even so, that’s a lot of performances,” Jenny said, surprised. “You can fill the theater that many nights?”
“And two Saturday matinees,” Bree confirmed. “We’re virtually sold out. We have a lot more season ticket holders than I ever imagined and the Christmas play always draws from the entire region. People are anxious for a holiday event the whole family can enjoy at a reasonable price.”
“Bree, that’s fantastic! Congratulations!” she said, genuinely thrilled for her.
Bree grinned. “I have to say when Jake and I first talked about my opening a theater here, I wasn’t a believer. I wasn’t convinced it would last a year. Yet here we are in year five. We’ve even gotten some great reviews from critics in Washington and Baltimore, too.”
“Okay, I know you’re not one to rest on your laurels. What’s next?”
“I want to write an original play with Broadway or at least off-Broadway potential,” Bree said at once, then grinned. “When I dream, I dream big.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Jenny said. “And that’s not exactly a new dream. You’ve been working toward it your entire career. You deserve whatever success comes your way.”
“Thanks.” Bree glanced at her watch. “I need to get onstage and start running lines with the cast. You’re okay here in the rehearsal hall?”
“I have my guitar and some paper. That’s all I need,” Jenny confirmed. “Go create magic.”
Bree laughed. “You do the same.”
Jenny thought of all the times when she’d struggled to find the perfect word or the perfect note. And it still thrilled her when she heard one of her songs on the radio. Now that, she thought with a smile on her lips, truly was magic.
Chapter Four
“I always knew you were going to be a big-time son writer,” Dillon Johnson said, stepping into the rehearsal hall just as Jenny set aside her guitar. “That was incredible.”
A smile spread across Jenny’s face at the sight of her first real boyfriend. He was taller now and had filled out his lanky frame. The boy she’d last seen years ago was now a man, and a good-looking one at that.
“Dillon! Where’d you come from?” she said, jumping up to give him a hug. “And look at you, wearing a suit and tie and all grown up. How’d that happen?”
He laughed. “Time passes, at least for most of us mortals. You, however, look exactly the same. Still beautiful.”
Jenny doubted that. It had been hours since she’d run a comb through her hair, and her lipstick no doubt was history. She’d chosen her most comfortable pair of jeans and her warmest sweater this morning, but neither was exactly fashionable.
She had a real superstitious streak about that sweater, though. She’d worn it when she’d written her first big hit, scribbling lyrics onto scraps of paper late into a cold, snowy night in Nashville. For every song thereafter, she’d made it a point to pull on the same sweater when she’d first started writing down ideas and words. This morning she’d wanted to bring that same luck to everything she wrote for Bree’s holiday production.
“Liar,” she teased. “But thank you for the compliment just the same. What brings you by?”
“Ethel mentioned that you were in town—”
“Of course she did,” Jenny said, surprised there hadn’t been a banner announcing her arrival on Main Street.
“She does like to be the bearer of good tidings,” Dillon said. “Anyway, I had a few minutes between appointments. You probably heard I’m working with my dad now in his insurance business.”
“I did hear that,” Jenny confirmed. “I have to say I was surprised.”
His expression turned sheepish. “You mean because I always swore I’d rather die than sell insurance?”
“You were pretty emphatic about it,” she recalled.
“When I got out of school, there weren’t a lot of jobs around. I needed to work.”
“That’s right. You’re married and the father of a little girl,” Jenny said. Bree had hesitantly passed on that information, clearly uncertain how Jenny would feel about the news. She’d had a momentary twinge of regret, but that was all.
“Mostly true,” he said, a shadow passing over his face. “Deanna moved out and filed for divorce a few months ago. She said she was tired of competing with my past.”
Jenny frowned at that. “Meaning?”
“You, of course. She said she could tell that every time one of your songs came on the radio, I started thinking about what might have been. It probably didn’t help that they were all downloaded onto my iPod, too.”
Shocked, Jenny sat back down, picked up her guitar and held it protectively in front of her, her fingers idly strumming as she bought time to consider what he’d said.
“But, Dillon, surely that wasn’t true,” she responded eventually, hoping his wife had been wrong. “You and I called it quits when we left for college. That was a long time ago. We hadn’t even been in touch.”
“I told her that.” He shrugged. “She didn’t believe it, especially after we moved to town and everyone she met mentioned our history. I don’t think they did it to be cruel. It’s just that people in Chesapeake Shores have long memories, and you’ve become a celebrity in the music world. Everyone in town is so proud of knowing you.”
Jenny shied away from the description. “A celebrity? Hardly. Most people have no idea who wrote the songs. The focus is on the artist who performs them.”
“Unless the writer is romantically involved with the performer, I imagine,” he suggested quietly.
Jenny sighed. He was right about that. Because of her relationship with Caleb, she’d been in the public eye more than most songwriters who weren’t performers themselves. “I’m really sorry.”
“Not your fault. And, to be honest, maybe Deanna was right. Maybe you never entirely get over your first love.”
Jenny had. She’d moved on with Caleb and, in the rare moments when she allowed herself to be completely truthful, she knew that was the relationship that still lingered in her heart. Bree had been right about that. She was determined, though, not to listen to that traitorous bit of nostalgia. She’d left Caleb in the past. He needed to stay there.
“What