Hannah murmured that last part, because a light bulb had started flashing in her brain. She looked down at the folder, flipping it open and leafing through page after page of lyrics with no music. But what if . . . music could be added? The lyrics were deep and heartfelt and poetic. Compelling. They’d made Henry feel real to Hannah. What if she could take it one step further and bring his music to life?
Was that a crazy idea?
“Weird question for you,” she said to Shauna. “How well do you know the Unreliables? Would they be willing to”—what did she even call this?—“collaborate? I have these songs from my father, and I’d love to add music like theirs, add a voice—and they would be perfect. I only have the words, obviously, so they’d have a lot of creative input . . .”
Oh boy.
Now that one light bulb had gone off, her whole head looked like Hollywood Boulevard at night. She’d gone days without inspiration, and now it was pouring in, all because of the faded blue folder in her hands.
Glory Daze took place in Westport.
Westport was Henry Cross.
How many times had she been told that?
Currently, the music soundtrack was made up of songs that already existed and that never felt right to Hannah. Music for another time and place that dulled the magic of this location. It dulled the impact of Westport as the backdrop. But what if the score was made up of songs written by the man who defined this place?
“You want to record them? Intriguing,” Shauna said, pursing her lips. “So you’d want them to add their own spin to the shanties. Lay down some tracks . . .”
“Yes. I mean, if they’re in Seattle, I could meet with them myself. Compensate them.” If there was ever a time to give in and use the family money available to her, this was it. And wow. All of this felt like leading-lady moves. But they felt good, so she took them one step further. “I’d like to have some input as well.”
Shauna nodded, seeming kind of impressed. “Let me reach out to my cousin to see if they’re available. But don’t count on them. It could be a dead end. They’re not called the Unreliables for nothing.”
“Right,” Hannah said wryly, closing the folder and running her hand over the front cover, getting more and more caught up in the idea, something telling her this was it. This was big. She’d only had the idea a minute ago and already ached to get started. To dive into the process she’d always watched from the wings. She could be a part of it. With her father. “Thanks.”
Shauna shuffled across the ancient floor and plopped herself down on a stool behind the counter. “Where have you been staying while you’re in town? With Brendan and Piper?”
“Not this time. Brendan’s parents are in town, so”—she swallowed, thinking about her temporary roommate’s face relaxed in sleep—“I’m staying with Fox up on the harbor.”
Shauna slapped her thigh. “Oh! Wait, I take back what I said about only having two customers. Fox has been in here a bunch, too, lately.”
Hannah did a double take. “Has he?”
“Uh-huh.” Shauna got distracted by a smudge on the front counter, scratching at it with her thumbnail. “Surprised me, too, the first time he walked in. You know, he was a senior at the high school when I was a freshman. The Fox Thornton.” She shook her head. “You don’t just expect that face to breeze in off the street. Took me a few minutes to stop babbling. But he has pretty good taste. Last thing he bought was Thin Lizzy. Live.”
Confusion settled over Hannah. “But he doesn’t even own a record player.” She took a mental tally of the sparse apartment. “Unless it’s invisible.”
“Weird,” Shauna commented.
“Yeah . . .” Deep in thought, Hannah backed toward the exit, needing to make one more stop before heading to set. She’d have to deconstruct the riddle of Fox’s record-buying habits later. “Weird. See you soon?”
“I better.”
Chapter Fourteen
Hannah shifted in her sneakers, curling and uncurling the blue folder in her hands, waiting for Brinley to finish talking on her cell.
There was a good possibility this wasn’t going to go well. But the more Hannah turned over the idea of recording Henry’s shanties, the more it felt right. Inevitable. At the very least, she needed to voice the concept. To try. For Henry. For herself. And maybe she needed to try for Fox, too. Not because he expected or required her to make leading-lady moves, but because she couldn’t encourage him to reach beyond his capabilities if she wasn’t willing to do the same.
Speaking of Fox, she had a serious itch to hear his voice. Right now, while her nerves were trying to get the better of her. Normally her go-to person would be Piper if she needed a verbal chill pill, but she found herself pulling up her miles-long text thread with Fox, instead, her stomach calming simply from seeing his name on the screen. Keeping Brinley in her sights, she punched out a message.
HANNAH (1:45 PM): Hey there.
FOX (1:46 PM): Hey Freckles. What’s up?
H (1:46 PM): Not much. Just saying hey.
F (1:47 PM): If you miss me so much, tell them ur sick and come home. I’ll take you shoe shopping with me.
H (1:48 PM): Play hooky with a fisherman? Sounds dangerous.
F (1:48 PM): You won’t feel a thing.
H (1:49 PM): Lies. Back up. Shoe shopping? Did I accidentally text my sister?
F (1:50 PM): I need some new XTRATUFs. Rubber boots for the boat. At the risk of diminishing my insane sex appeal, mine are starting to reek.
H (1:52 PM): Sex appeal maintained. Unbelievable.
F (1:54 PM): It’s a curse.
F (1:55 PM): I can see you from the window. Turn.
Hannah’s upper half twisted to find Fox looking back at her from his upstairs apartment, and an involuntary smile spread across her face. She waved. He waved back. And a powerful yearning to spend the day with Fox caught her so off guard, her arm dropped, a king-sized knot forming in her throat.
H (1:58 PM): Is it weird I want to sniff your boots to judge exactly how bad they are?
F (1:59 PM): It’s your funeral.
F (2:00 PM): You’re one of a kind, Hannah.
H (2:01 PM): So they say. See you later. Thanks.
F (2:02 PM): For what?
Hannah started to respond, but up ahead Brinley ended her phone call.
No guts, no glory. And her guts didn’t feel quite as liquified after texting with Fox. It helped to see him there in the window, a reassuring presence, there when she needed him.
Putting some starch in her spine, Hannah picked her way through the set in the other woman’s direction, doing her best not to look queasy. When she reached the music coordinator, the woman took a full minute to look up from the note she was writing on a legal pad. “Yes?”
“Hi, Brinley.” Hannah rolled her lips inward, turning the folder over in her hands. “So I brought something I thought you might be interested in—”
“Is this going to be quick? I have to make a call.”
“Yes.” Hannah resisted the impulse to blow off the whole thing, tell Brinley it was nothing and walk away. “Actually, I don’t know if this will be quick? But I definitely think it’s worth carving out a few minutes.” Hannah exhaled and flipped open the folder. “These are original sea shanties. Written by my father, actually. And they’re good. Really good. A lot of them are about Westport and family and love. Loss. They capture the themes of the movie, and after speaking to my grandmother this morning, we have permission to use them. I think . . . well, I was hoping you would consider approaching Sergei about using these original songs? I know it would be some extra legwork getting them professionally recorded, but—”