Six hours in a car is just too long.
Corbin James tightened his grip on the steering wheel with one hand while adjusting the wipers with the other. Tennessee summers were famous for their sticky humidity and pop-up thunderstorms. The steady rain, Corbin’s constant companion since exiting the interstate, made it hard to stay awake, let alone concentrate on the scenery and the two-lane road.
Not that there was much to see. His hometown of Riverview, with its triple-digit population and quiet isolation, was a far cry from the bright lights of Nashville.
Corbin glanced down at the speedometer. With a grimace, he gently lifted his foot off the gas. He certainly didn’t want to catch the attention of a deputy sheriff who might be eager to make an example of a lead-footed driver with out-of-town plates. After all, he’d been cooped up for the past ninety days. The last thing he wanted to do was give some hillbilly judge an excuse to send him back.
He never wanted to go back.
Needing a distraction, Corbin turned up the volume on the radio and sang along to the old George Strait song blaring from the speakers of his rental car. There had been a time when he wouldn’t have been caught dead driving a four-door sedan, but beggars can’t be choosers, especially when it’s either a rental or a twelve-hour ride on a Greyhound.
Still, he was starting to feel cooped up, and when he passed the Riverview city limit sign, he couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.
As Corbin drove through his little hometown, he marveled at how little it had changed over the past five years. He stopped at the first traffic light—one of only three in town—and noticed a Mexican restaurant. It was definitely new, and from the looks of the vacant parking lot, the place was no competition for the greasy diner next door. Corbin laughed, finding it ironic that the most flammable place in town had somehow survived last year’s forest fires.
It’s official. Cockroaches and Peg’s Diner would withstand a nuclear war.
The light finally turned green, and Corbin drove on, making a mental note to check out the new restaurant. Not because he was a big lover of Mexican food, but because the place looked dead on a Friday afternoon.
Bad for business. Good for him.
He just couldn’t handle crowds. Not anymore.
By the time he reached the third and final traffic light, Corbin had grown bored with how little Riverview had changed over the years. That is, until he looked to his right and spotted a tiny wooden store, with books displayed in one window and musical instruments in the other. A cherry red sign with bold black letters hung from its canopy.
Turn the Page
Corbin smiled. Someone’s creative . . . or a Bob Seger fan.
Either way, he was impressed, and he made another mental note to drop by the shop once he got settled at home.
After a few miles, the city limits faded behind him, and Corbin caught his first glimpse of the river through the trees. Crystal blue and shimmering in the sun, the view of the water momentarily replaced any nervousness he felt about coming home. He took a left at the big weeping willow and drove slowly along the three-mile stretch of driveway that, according to his father, had been the house’s finest selling point. His dad had always loved privacy and seclusion. As a kid, Corbin hadn’t understood it—the healing peace that comes from sitting on the front porch, surrounded by the sounds of nature, the warmth of family, and the sanctuary of home. But today—at the age of twenty-five—Corbin not only understood it. He craved it.
The trees thinned as the house finally came into view. In many ways, it looked exactly the same. Today, however, he was seeing it through mature, humbled eyes, and he noticed little things that seemed so unimportant in the past. Like his mom’s flowerbed along the porch. Or the little gazebo in the yard that his father had built with his own hands. All the things that made the house a home. All the things he’d taken for granted for too many years.
Corbin turned off the engine and gazed longingly at the steps leading to the front door. It was stupid to be nervous about walking up a set of wooden steps he’d walked a thousand times in his life. But that was another lifetime ago. Back when all that was important to him was chasing dreams, chasing women, and chasing gigs. He’d been far too selfish to actually make the trip home.
Then one day, the option to visit was taken away from him completely.
Gathering his nerve, he climbed out of the car and popped the trunk. He grabbed his worn duffle and guitar case before slowly making his way up the steps. They were expecting him, of course. He’d called as soon as he reached the bus terminal, just to make sure he was welcome. His parents had offered to come pick him up, but he knew six hours there and six hours right back home was asking a lot. Instead, he’d asked if they could arrange for a rental car, and they’d done so without question.
Once that front door opened, Corbin knew his life would never be the same. His mom would hug him and pull him into the kitchen to make his favorite dinner. Later, when Dad retreated to the tranquility of his porch, Corbin would ask if he could join him. His father would say yes, because he’d always asked his children to sit with him, and they’d always said no. As kids, Corbin and his siblings had never been fans of letting the gentle roar of the river ease their troubled minds, as their dad used to say. But now that he was an adult—and with his first taste of freedom in nearly three months—Corbin couldn’t think of anything he’d like more.
That was why tonight, when his Dad asked him to join him on the porch, Corbin would say yes.
It seemed polite to knock, so that’s what he did. The door flew open almost immediately, and the beautiful face of his mother greeted him with a beaming smile.
“Corbin . . .” Maggie’s voice broke as she pulled her son into her arms. “We’re so glad you’re home.”
He nuzzled his mom’s hair, smiling when the familiar scent of her peppermint shampoo flooded his senses and calmed his nerves.
“It’s good to be home, Mom.”
Maggie pulled her son inside and closed the door behind them. Corbin carefully dropped his bag and placed the guitar case on the hardwood floor. The aroma of meatloaf floated from the kitchen, making Corbin’s stomach rumble in anticipation.
She grinned. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Dinner’s almost ready.” Maggie smoothed the hair out of her son’s eyes. “You look . . . well. Healthy.”
Translation? You look sober.
“I am, Mom.”
Maggie stepped back slightly and peered at her oldest son with hopeful, cautious eyes. Truthfully, he looked like death, and he knew it. He was exhausted, but now, it was the kind of exhaustion that could be remedied by a good night’s sleep in a warm bed in a quiet house. Corbin knew his mom could ignore the dark circles under his eyes. But if those same eyes were cloudy, glassy, or unfocused? That would break her heart.
Seemingly satisfied, his mom gave him another hug before taking his hand and leading him to the kitchen.
“Your father’s on his way. One of the university’s biggest benefactors chose today, of all days, to make an appearance. Naturally, Samuel and the rest of the deans were expected to be there.” She nodded at the large bowl on the island. “Want to make the salad? Everything’s there.”
While his mom checked the meatloaf, Corbin climbed on a stool and reached for a knife. He massacred the first tomato, but by the second, he finally got the hang of it.
“Out of practice?” Maggie asked with a teasing laugh, noticing the mess he’d made.
“I guess. You don’t get to do a lot of veggie chopping in rehab.”
“I’ll take a bushel of ruined tomatoes any day if it means you’re healthy and home.”
They smiled at each other before he leaned over to kiss her cheek.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Sure thing. Just don’t kill the cucumber. I only have one.”
Corbin grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
While they finished making dinner, Maggie filled him in on the family.
“Lacey graduates from UNC in the spring. Your father and I have worried ourselves sick, wondering what she’d do with a French degree. But she already has a job offer from some museum in Paris, so I guess the joke’s on us. And Ben and Kellie are having another baby.”
Not surprising. Lacey had dreamed about living in France since she’d been old enough to say merci beaucoup. Corbin was surprised to hear his little brother was on baby number three.
“This from a guy who swore he’d never have kids.”
Maggie smiled. “He’s a wonderful father. You’ll get to finally meet your nieces tomorrow. It’s Family Day, so don’t go making any plans.”
“No plans,” Corbin assured her.
“Good.”
“I’m home!” a voice called out from the living room. A moment later, Samuel James walked into the kitchen, stopping to kiss his wife on the cheek before turning to his son. He smiled softly and pulled Corbin into a hug.
“It’s good to see you, son. You look . . . healthy.”
Same translation. You look sober.
Over dinner, his parents tried to catch him up on everything he’d missed. A new high school had opened, the Presbyterian church had burned down and been rebuilt, and Peg’s Diner was now owned by her son, Aaron.
“And we finally have a bookstore in town,” Samuel said.
“Turn the Page? I noticed it on my way in.”
Maggie’s eyes brightened. “Oh, you’d love that shop, Corbin. It’s not just a bookstore. Jolie sells CDs, vinyl, musical instruments . . .”
“Well, if the name of the store’s any indication, the owner has great taste in music.”
Samuel laughed. “Jolie will be very happy to hear you say that. She was appalled at the number of people in town who didn’t get the reference.”
Maggie grinned. “Including me. She sent me home with a classic rock CD so that I could educate myself. She even quizzed me over the lyrics when I went back a few weeks later. Jolie’s a lovely girl.” His mom’s eyes softened, all dreamy and angelic-like.
Corbin fidgeted in his seat. I know that look.
“You know, son, Jolie’s about your age. And single. And so pretty. Both of you obviously love music.”
Yep, that’s the look.
Corbin glanced helplessly at his father.
Samuel chuckled. “Maggie, the boy just walked in the door, and you’re already matchmaking.”
“Well, she is a beautiful girl. And she has one of the best bookstores in the area. It’s been really wonderful for the community.”
Corbin wiped his mouth with his napkin before tossing it onto his plate. “It sounds great. Maybe I can check it out tomorrow.”
Maggie frowned. “Tomorrow is Family Day, Corbin.”
He laughed. “Or I can go the next day, if she’s open on Sunday. Or one day next week. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
He looked up to find his parents staring holes through him.
“You’re not?” Samuel asked softly.
“If that’s okay? Just until I get back on my feet.”
The smile that erupted on his mother’s face assured him that it was absolutely okay.
Samuel James loved his porch, and that evening, Corbin finally understood why. Between the fresh air, the quiet solitude, and the gentle rhythm of his rocking chair, he was pretty sure he could fall asleep right there. His dad’s eyes were already closed.
“I didn’t want to say this in front of your mother, but you look like shit, son.”
Corbin grinned. “I’m just tired. And a little overwhelmed, I think.”
His dad nodded in understanding.
After a few minutes, the creaking of the rocking chairs began to work their magic. Corbin’s eyes started to grow heavy, and he’d nearly dozed off when something caught his eye. His parents’ front yard was gigantic, and it was hard to tell from so far away, but . . .
“Is that a deer?”
Samuel didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Probably.”
“Hmm.”
His father chuckled. “You sound surprised. We live in the country, son. Wild animals in the front yard isn’t that rare of an occurrence, you know.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I guess I’ve just been in the city too long.”
“It’s good to remember where you’re from. Your family. Your town. Your home. They remind you what’s important.”
“And what’s not important.”
Samuel agreed with a nod. “I couldn’t help but notice you still have your Grandpa’s guitar. Your music’s still important.”
That guitar was the only personal possession Corbin hadn’t pawned, traded, or sold.
“I don’t know if it’s so important anymore. I won a reality TV singing competition and released three albums with three different labels before they dropped me. That’s not much of a career.”
“That first album won a Grammy.”
“It did. And then I snorted or drank away every dime that album made me and ended up in rehab. Twice.” Corbin laughed darkly. “Sounds like a country song, doesn’t it?”
Sighing quietly, Samuel opened his eyes to take a good look at his son.
“But you’re here now. Clean and sober. That’s what matters. And who knows? Maybe with a clear perspective and sharpened focus, you can get back to your music.”
Corbin shook his head. “It’s time, Dad. Time to grow up. Time to get a real job. I was thinking Knoxville. Maybe even Gatlinburg.”
“Those are good options. Riverview is a wonderful place to live, but like most small towns, there aren’t a lot of jobs here. In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you need. Your mother and I do have some conditions.”
“I’d be shocked if you didn’t.”
“We love you, and we’re so glad you’re home, but if your mother and I suspect you’re drinking or using again, you will pack your bags.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Now, what can we do to help you get settled?”
“You’re giving me a place to live. That’s more than I could have hoped for.”
“What about money?”
“Believe it or not, a few royalty checks rolled in while I was in rehab. My manager still wanted his ten percent, so he made sure the checks were delivered.”
“Delivered to you?”
“To Craig, my rehab counselor. He made me attend money management classes and set me up with a financial advisor. So, thanks to them, I have a little cash in the bank. It’s not much, but it’s enough to get by.”
“That’s good to hear. But let us know if you need anything.”
“Thanks. Oh, I’ve been strongly encouraged to join AA. Do you know if—”
“They have meetings at the Presbyterian church on Thursday nights. I’ll get you the number.”
“Thanks.” Corbin’s voice grew thick with emotion. “Dad, I’m gonna make it this time. You’ll see.”
His father smiled sadly. “I hope so, son. I really do.”
Corbin knew he had a lot to prove. To his family and to himself. Letting his guilt consume him was something he’d probably always struggle with. He’d been unreliable, uncaring, and unpredictable. Between his failed music career, his DUI arrests, and his ninety-day stints in rehab, he’d given the good people of Riverview plenty to talk about over the years. His family had shouldered that shame for a long time, and Corbin was determined to spend the rest of his life making it up to them. No one will forgive you until you forgive yourself, his rehab counselor always said. Corbin knew that was probably true.
Probably.
Still, as determined as he was, he couldn’t ignore the ball of anxiety that’d taken permanent residence in his stomach. His life was now full of possibilities and unknowns. Could he function out there? Could he live a normal life, without the bottle?
This trip was more than just a homecoming. It was a test. The biggest of his life. Because Corbin knew if he couldn’t handle Riverview, he certainly couldn’t make it out in the real world.
And it was that possibility that frightened him most.
Corbin’s alarm shattered the stillness of the dawn. With a groan, he smacked the snooze button before turning onto his back. Ten minutes later, the clock screamed again. This time, he opened his eyes and found himself staring at the same ceiling he’d lived under for the first eighteen years of his life.
He smiled. Best sleep ever.
Keeping a consistent sleep schedule was one of the lessons they’d drilled into his head during rehab. It had been brutal at first—waking up at dawn with lights out no later than eleven—but the great thing about rehab is you’re not really given a choice but to get used to it, and so he did. Still, his nights had been filled with nightmares, fueled by guilt and loneliness, and rest hadn’t come easily, which made last night’s sweet dreams even sweeter.
Corbin sat up in bed and glanced around his childhood bedroom. Maggie had redecorated, now using it as a guest room for the grandkids. Gone were the concert posters and comic books. In fact, the only evidence that he’d once lived in this room could be found on the bookshelf, where Corbin’s journals were still neatly arranged. The pages of those leather-bound notebooks were filled with lyrics and guitar tabs. Most of his journals had made the trip with him to Nashville, and many of the lyrics had been used on his albums. The journals he’d left behind were full of teen heartbreak and rebellion. Corbin had known they were far too juvenile to actually put to music, but he learned long ago that some of the best songs come from the most ordinary of memories. So he’d kept them, just in case.
Corbin glanced at the nightstand. He’d kept something else, too.
“I wonder . . .”
He opened the drawer, and sure enough, his Bible was there.
Growing up, he’d struggled with religion. Not too surprising, since Mom was a devout Baptist and Dad was . . . undecided at best. Corbin had always wondered who was right, so he was hesitant to devote his life to any specific church denomination. It was Corbin’s grandfather—who preferred to just call himself a Christian—that always said the Lord didn’t care what religious label you slapped on yourself as long as you believed.
So, that’s what Corbin did. He believed.
And because he believed, his grandfather had given him that Bible.
Corbin reached for the book and opened it to the bookmarked page in Psalms. His mother always said it was his favorite book because the verses were songs.
She was probably right.
For fun, or maybe for a little guidance, Corbin closed his eyes and trailed his finger along the page. When he opened them, he read aloud in a gentle whisper.
“By day the Lord directs his love. At night his song is with me.”
With a sigh, Corbin closed the Bible and placed it back in the drawer. Feeling slightly inspired, he climbed out of bed and grabbed his guitar—another gift from his grandpa. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and strummed softly.
Corbin had written a lot of songs in this bedroom.
Some were decent. Most were crap.
Will I ever write again?
He had no idea. The desire was there, but the words just wouldn’t flow. Late in his career, it’d been easy to blame the partying and booze on his lack of creativity, but now he had no excuse, and Corbin couldn’t help but wonder if maybe his songwriting days were over.
He’d almost finished playing one of his old songs when a string snapped, causing him to curse loudly.
Way to go, Corb. If your folks weren’t awake before, they sure are now.
His suspicion was confirmed moments later, when he heard a soft knock on his door, followed by his mom’s voice.
“Good morning, potty mouth. Pancakes or waffles?”
Corbin grinned.
It was good to be home.