“Well. Fine.” She dropped her hands and started to pace. “It’s just that . . . you know, Piper, she really connected to the soul of Henry Cross. When we were here last summer? And me . . . I was kind of pretending to.”
She stopped pacing to look at him, judging his expression, which he kept impassive. On the inside, he was curious as hell. “Okay. I get pretending.”
Hannah studied his face thoughtfully before continuing. “I was two years old when we left Westport. I don’t remember anything about Henry Cross or this place. No matter how much I dig, I can’t . . . I can’t feel anything for this . . . invisible past. Nothing but guilt, anyway.”
“Why are you under pressure to feel something?”
“I’m not under pressure, really. It’s just that I usually would. Feel something. I can watch a song play out in my head like a movie and bond with the words and sound, connect with something written about a situation I’m not even familiar with. I’m an emotional person, you know? But this . . . It’s like zip. Like I’ve got a mental block on anything related to my father.”
It was really bothering her. He could see that. And thus, it was bothering him. Not only that this lack of connection with Henry Cross was under her skin, but . . . what if he couldn’t find the right words to make it better? Comforting women wasn’t exactly his forte. “Do you want to forge some kind of bond with the past? With Henry?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why were you drawn back here?”
“I missed my sister. I missed this place. I even missed you a little,” she said playfully, but sobered again quickly. “That’s all.”
“Is that all? Missing people? Or are you chewing on something you can’t quite name?” Fox wished he had his shirt off, so he could feel less exposed. And what sense did that make? “Same way you came in here, poking at me until I gave in and agreed to have the damn talk . . . Maybe you’re just doing the same with this place. Poking around until you find the way in. But you know what? If it doesn’t happen, it doesn’t make you guilty of anything, Hannah.”
Slowly, gratitude spread across her features, and he let out a breath. “Thanks.” She stared at something invisible in the distance. “Maybe you’re right.”
Desperate for some way to get the attention off himself, at least while he was attempting to dole out comfort, he coughed into his fist. “Want me to take a look at them? I might recognize one or two.”
“Really? You still . . . sing shanties on the boat?”
“I mean, not very often. Sometimes Deke starts one off. Not joining in kind of makes you a dick. Case in point, Brendan never sings along.”
That got a laugh out of her, and some weight left his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll go grab them.” She seemed nervous about the whole thing, so they might as well get comfortable. While Hannah was in the guest room, he put their bowls in the sink and moved to the living room, taking a spot on the couch. A minute later, she returned with a faded blue folder stuffed with papers and sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, pausing slightly before opening it. She ran a finger over a line of script, brows drawn in concentration, then handed him a stack.
Fox scanned a few lines on the first page, didn’t recognize the lyrics, but the second one was very familiar. “Ah, yeah. I know this one well. The old-timers still sing it sometimes in Blow the Man Down.” His chuckle betrayed his disbelief. “I didn’t know Henry Cross wrote this. You always kind of assume these songs are a million years old.”
Hannah shifted into a cross-legged position on the floor. “So you know that one. Can you sing it?”
“What? Like, right now?”
She gave him puppy-dog eyes, and his jugular stretched like the skin of a drum. Sucker. But knowing he could help, knowing he could do something to potentially make her happy? That was like holding the keys to a kingdom. Even if he had to sing to get to the other side. The desire to give Hannah what she needed had him adjusting the paper in his lap, clearing his throat.
There was a huge possibility this wouldn’t mean much to her, either, but when she looked at him like that, he had to try. “I mean, if it means that much to you . . .”
In a voice that definitely wouldn’t win him any contests, Fox started to sing “A Seafarer’s Bounty.”
Chapter Twelve
Born unto the fog
And ferried by the tide,
To the womb of his ship
Where he earns his pride,
A seafarer’s bounty
Means coin in hand and no one at his side.
The hunt has no end.
It’s a game, it’s the fame.
A love to defend.
A treasure to claim.
Boots to the deck, men, come on now, let’s ride.
Trade the glass
For my lass.
And the wild
For my child.
Trade the wind
For her.
Trade the mayhem
For them.
And it’s anchors down. There’s a life beyond the tide.
Treasure is not mere
Rubies and gold.
When a seafarer finds his warmth
From the cold.
No longer are the deep blue waves his only bride.
Home is the fortune,
Health is the prize.
To lie in her arms,
To look in their eyes,
By the laws of the land, a sailor will learn to abide.
Trade the glass
For my lass.
And the wild
For my child.
Trade the wind
For her.
Trade the mayhem
For them.
And it’s anchors down. There’s a life beyond the tide.
Soon, loves, soon.
Soon, loves, soon.
One last ride,
At the rise of the moon.
Then it’s home to my bounty.
We’ll write our family’s tune.
Hannah was eleven when she got her first pair of headphones.
She’d always sung along loudly to whatever played on satellite radio. Always had a knack for remembering the words, knowing exactly where the tempo picked up. But when she got those headphones, when she could be alone with the music, that’s when her enjoyment of it soared.
Since they were a gift from her stepfather, of course they were completely over the top. Pink noise-canceling ones that were almost too heavy for her neck to hold up. So she’d spent hours upon hours in her room lying down, head supported by a pillow, playing the music her mother had loaded onto her phone. Billie Holiday had transported her to the smoky jazz rooms of the past. The Metallica she’d downloaded, despite lacking her mother’s permission, made her want to rage and kick things. When she got a little older, Pink Floyd made her curious about instruments and method and artistic experimentation.
Music could cut her straight down the middle. Nothing else in her life had the power to do that. She often wondered if something was wrong with her that a real-life event could have less of an impact than a song written fifty years ago. But those two parallel lines—real life and art—had never collided like this. And for the second time since she’d met Fox, he was inside the experience with her. This experience she’d always, always had alone. Wanted to have alone. The first time had been at the record expo in Seattle when they’d shared a pair of AirPods in the middle of a busy aisle, the world ceasing to exist around them. The second time was now. In his living room.