Mountaintop

Author's Note: If you can imagine the Civil Wars singing a song much like You Say, except the song is not a Christian song but a song celebrating the spiritual aspect of human love, then you'll be on track to imagining the song R&R write in this chapter. Incidentally, I do believe this chapter is my favorite in the entire book. It's the end, essentially. The remaining chapters are just the gravy I know you all love...

Riley

I sit on the side of the bed, fully dressed, watching Row sleep. Despite all the chaotic spirit in her, she's gorgeously vulnerable in her sweet peace. It always shocks me, how much more she looks like her sister in slumber. But as soon as I wake her, I know she'll growl in defiance at the early hour and be my spectacular heathen once more.

I brush a long, dark, silken tendril from her face and kiss her cheek. Her cheek, because once when I woke her before dawn, she actually bit me for it. She swears she didn't mean to, but I've no great desire to repeat the experience.

She moans but doesn't stir. I kiss her other cheek.

"Wake up, darling."

Her body tenses, and she takes that involuntary gasp of waking breath that I find so adorable. Like she's super-charging for the day. She cracks one eye, twitches a smile at me. Then she opens the other, casting a suspicious look around the dark room.

"Fuck, Riley!"

She flounces over on her stomach and buries her head beneath the pillow. I reach beneath the covers and pat her ass. "Look, I'll happily come back to bed. You're the one that insisted on this dawn surprise, whatever it is..."

She throws the pillow to the floor and rolls over again. She's smiling now. "Right. Sorry. I forgot for a second." One expressive hand winds through the air toward me, making contact with my t-shirt. She fists it in her hand and draws me down to her, her head tilting up to press a soft kiss on my lips. "Happy Not-Dead Day."

I snort. She coined that phrase last year on the first anniversary of my car accident. "Happy Divorce-Sucked-Let's-Never-Do-That-Again Day," I reply.

Her eyes fly open, and she makes a sound of disgust, popping me very lightly in the mouth with a swift hand. "Never, ever say the D-word to me, Riley!"

I grab the offending hand, and the other, and pin them above her head. "Sorry, let me properly apologize." I kiss her thoroughly. After about ninety seconds, I'm moving to breach her legs with a knee, but she breaks the kiss.

"Get off me," she laughs.

"Really?" I'm surprised. I can't remember the last time Row actually denied me sex.

She grabs my head, kisses me roughly. "Yes, really. We can make love anytime, but right now we've got somewhere to be!"

She rolls away and dances to the en suite.

Somewhere turns out to be the middle of mountainous nowhere, forty-five minutes above Asheville. When Row drives us down a gravel road to a gate with a lock, I frown. "I think this is private property, Row."

"It is. We have permission to be here," she smirks, turning off the car and holding up what looks like some kind of medieval iron key inscribed with initials. They are so ornate, and her flash of the key so brief, I can't make them out.

I raise my eyebrows. "Where did you get that?"

"From the owner," she replies cryptically.

"Whom would be?" I growl a little bit. Despite all my growth, I'm still me and always will be. I like to be the one in the know. Row's really doing a number on me with this little "Not-Dead-Day" surprise.

"I'll tell you when we get there."

"There?"

"Come on." She hands me my trekking poles from the backseat and grabs a knapsack before bolting from the car with no further explanation.

We hike up the easy-to-traverse path in relative silence. After I've acclimated to the terrain, I collapse one of the poles and stuff it Row's backpack so that I can hold her hand.

When I reach for her hand, her eyes glass over in tears. But she cries silently, looking away from me, down the switchback at the mountain view. I squeeze her hand. It's a harder anniversary for her than for me. This is the anniversary of the day I pretended to ignore the death throes of our marriage and then caused her to spend what felt like an agonizing lifetime in a hospital waiting room, thinking our broken love was killing me, bargaining and begging an undefined god for my life.

I frame the day as a miracle—the day fate refused to let me reap the consequence of the biggest mistakes of my life. That day, I fought to drown my love for her in drink, and I couldn't. Then I tried to run away from it in a car and nearly killed myself, but I didn't. Because I am hers, and some god or spirit of fate knew it. Some power kept Priscilla in purgatory just to be my guardian angel, to force me back to life when I was nearly dead, to teach me how to dissolve grief and fear. To bring me peace so that I could do what I'm meant to do—love this woman beside me with all my strength and spirit for all time.

I look to the gorgeous cerulean sky and give thanks for my life and for Row's love. The climb is getting a little more difficult for me now, and Row still wipes tears beside me, but we don't stop. We keep going. No matter how formidable the path. No matter how far away the summit might be. We keep moving forward.

That's our mantra now. We keep moving forward with our life, our music, our love. Not everyone gets to be rockstars. Not everyone makes millions from their craft. Some people simply make a living, loving what they do, and we've both accepted that's the path we seem to be on.

We're going to be "rich" again one day, I suppose, thanks to the blessings of Row's birth, but the big money, big fame LA lifestyle is not in the cards for us. That's not our authentic life. That kind of life nearly destroyed our love. It made Row feel like she always had something to prove, and made me feel like I always had to win.

So here we are, hiking in the backwoods to some destination unknown, and neither of us has ever been happier.

The path gets really steep. I pause now, looking up the incline, wondering if Row has any idea how far the summit is, or how much harder the climb might get.

She steps in front of me turns toward me. "I came up here last week to check it out, while you were staying with Madam for the Nashville Showcase meeting. I went all the way to the top. It's not much farther. You can make it. I know you can." She gives me the sweetest, most joyous smile, and turns away from me, tightening our grip, leaning into the climb, tugging me forward.

Now I'm really intrigued, but also inspired by Row's faith. I rely on her weight and will to pull me and focus on my feet, putting one in front of the other. It's not easy, in fact, it might be the most difficult physical thing I've done in the two years since I broke my back, but I keep going.

We're both breathing heavily and sweating when we reach the summit. It's a cliff with a gorgeous view of the Blue-Ridge Mountains stretching into what feels like infinity. An open air-shelter houses—if you can believe it—a perfectly polished grand piano, installed so that one can play and enjoy the view. Beyond that, a large, low chest nestles about twelve feet back from the cliff face. It's carved with suns and moons and stars, and for some reason, I feel it's an altar. But not like anything you would see in a church.

"What is this place, darling?" I ask, going to the piano, trilling my fingers up the middle scale. Perfectly in tune. I can't for the life of me imagine how an instrument like this survives the open air and elements in such perfect condition, much less how anyone could have possibly gotten it to this remote place.

"It's Sean Faraday's song-writing studio," she laughs. "Isn't it just the most gorgeous, magical thing you've ever seen? He's lent us the use of it."

"Mmmm, yes. Magical." Well, at least that explains the instrument. Faraday most certainly has the means to have a new piano air-lifted by helicopter when he decides to use this place. I turn to her, "And how precisely did you work this magic for us?"

"It's a crazy story."

She leads me over to the altar, hopping up on it irreverently. It's in my mind to tell her it's not a place to sit, but perhaps to kneel. On the other hand, I could use a rest myself, so I ease down beside her. She offers me a water from her knapsack.

"Spill it," I say firmly.

"So, you know how I get bored when we're not together," she wheedles.

"I know how you get drunk when we're not together," I retort with a mild growl.

I'm not wrong—she still has a tendency to wild out whenever I'm not around. I worry a lot less these days. Twenty-seven-year-old Row's wild night is not what twenty-year-old Row's wild night once was. We're slowly acquiring a new, local group of friends, and none of the women in the new crew are much like the LA party girls she used to run with. A local singer-songwriter, a couple of teachers from a local school for troubled kids, and one who is a bartender at Sean Faraday's brewery, so I can already anticipate where the story is going.

"So, Donna had the night off from bartending, but for whatever reason, she likes to hang at the brewery anyway, so we met Grace and Susan there. We were just hanging out, having a couple of beers, listening to the band, and this guy comes over—"

"Faraday?" I say with interest.

"I'm getting to him, he was there..." she flaps a hand at me.

Row and I met him once at a festival we played at a nearby university. That was a weird day. I remember performing, but after that, the day is black-out-drunk hazy. I don't remember much about our interaction with him. I was already on my downward drug spiral, which explains it.

We've been to his brewery together a few times, but I haven't seen him there. It's well known he pops in for impromptu sets. Sometimes he can even be seen serving up beer or hanging with friends. I'm not ashamed to say that business-Riley wouldn't mind striking up an acquaintance with the most successful folk singer of the last decade, so I'm ecstatic that Row has done some of the legwork for us.

"But it wasn't Faraday that came over. Not at first. This other guy comes over to the table. Grace and Susan are apparently big buds of his. He introduced himself as James Finn. They called him Lord Finn, as some kind of joke, I guess. He was... very focused on me..." she shrugs sheepishly.

"He was hitting on you?" I ask wryly.

She looks thoughtful as she enjoys the view. "No, he was just an... intense guy. He said he was a professor of philosophy at the school where we played that really weird festival last year..."

"I remember."

"Right. He asked me a bunch of questions about myself, my family, our music—just like that red-head that was into you at that festival—"

"She wasn't into me," I say. "She was into us. Er...our sound, our chemistry, I mean."

"Whatever, Riley," Row rolls her eyes. "She tasted your sweat—"

"Okay, maybe she was a freak that was into us both," I say, "Can you get to the part about Sean Faraday—"

"I am," she huffs. "So turns out, this guy Finn is married to Faraday's sister. His twin sister!" Row exclaims proudly as if twinnage was a personal accomplishment bonding all twin pairs in some secret society. "And she was with him. Finn called her over to the table, and we got to talking...her name is Lana. She's very cool!" Row has stars in her eyes like she met a celebrity. Then she frowns slightly, perhaps thinking that her life circumstances have drastically reversed from her rockstar days. She used to be the center of other people's wild night stories.

"No one is cooler than you," I assure her.

"No, Lana really is. She's gorgeous and super-classy like my mom, but she's got this dark, sweary, bad-ass side to her, too."

I grin. "Row, you've just described yourself. You're dark, sweary, bad-ass, but also gorgeous and super-classy. Sounds to me like this Finn character has a type." I'm joking, of course.

She shrugs sheepishly. "Okay, maybe. But it was obvious he was completely into his wife. She didn't seem to mind him talking to me at all. They were very secure in each other." She raises her eyebrows at me.

"I'm secure in you. I'm just not secure in some random bloke in a bar intensely focusing on you. You're irresistible, darlin'." I draw her into my lap, nestling my nose into her plumeria-scented neck as she continues with the story.

"So anyway. Lana," Row redirects. "She insisted I come over to her and Finn's table in the tiny little VIP. She and I started doing shots, right? The next thing I knew she stood up and yelled, 'Sean, bring Sully's good stuff!' Like super loud. Like so loud it made me cover my ears." Row covers her ears now in illustration and makes a snorty laugh, remembering her wild night.

"Don't ask me who Sully is, but Sean Faraday is just suddenly, right there, like he'd been there all along. He had a bottle and four shot glasses in one hand. With the other, he twirled a chair around on one leg. While it twirled, he somehow managed to switch the bottle into his other hand and pour all four shots—the glasses still held in one hand— without spilling a drop. He slid into the chair right when it landed backward. He held all four shots out to us, balanced on his hand." She drew held out her own hand in illustration, gesturing in four places from her fingertips to her wrist. And while Lana and Finn were taking their shots, he and I toasted and took the other two. Then he said, "Hello again, Row. I've been hoping you'd find your way back to the Asheville scene. Where's Riley?"

"Blimey! He remembered us?"

"Yasssss! Oh my god, Riley, he is so cool!" She stops, and pats my leg, "But no one's cooler than you."

"Of course," I scoff. "So Faraday is your new BFF, eh?" I wouldn't mind. God knows we could use a patron, someone with a little faith in us. "Any chance he's going to offer us a spot as openers on a major US tour?"

"I don't think so," she says sadly. "He says he's retired from touring for good this time. Says the albums are just a hobby now."

Now it's my turn to snort. Hobby, he says. His last "hobby" went double platinum. Word around the music biz was that he donated all the profits to various charities within his community. Didn't keep a dime, personally.

"So, it's true. You heard it from the horse's mouth. He only plans to play locally for fun or charity, now."

"Yep. He said his focus has shifted to community." She gives me a knowing grin.

"Right. Did he... tell you about that?" I ask slowly.

A few years ago, Faraday shocked the conservative Southern music scene by coming out as a pagan. Like, a very serious pagan, with a manifesto and everything. He wrote a book called "A Guide To Really Living On This Earth." Apparently, he grew up that way but kept it on the low during the heyday of his stardom. Now, he's reinvested in the pagan lifestyle. Literally. All his money goes to support the pagan community he's building. New community members have to dedicate themselves in ritual to a pagan lifestyle in order to live there.

His wife runs a school for troubled kids nearby, and some conservative Christians were up in arms for a while, calling it a "cult for brainwashing kids." Eventually, the hysteria died down and the school is still thriving. There's no shortage of troubled kids needing help, and apparently, their system works.

"Not much," she shrugs. "A little. I told him Lawson would probably dig his commune. He said we could bring him up to meet 'the family' any time."

I snort. "Let's not tell the Lion. I could see Leed getting carried away and dropping a bunch of sex-rites on his Gram. It works for Faraday, but pagan isn't Soundcrush's brand."

"I don't know about all the pagan stuff, but there is something special about this place," she murmurs, looking down at the deep valley below, where dark creases held ancient secrets.

"I agree." I close my eyes. I can feel the heat of the sun. But I also the power of the earth, beneath my feet that hardly feel anything. "These mountains... are a good place for us. They feel like home. Like a home we never really had before."

She leans against me. "I feel the same way. I think Asheville is our place. I never knew I loved peace and quiet so much."

We sit in silence for a while, then Row rises and goes to the piano. I follow much more slowly, still weary from the climb.

As she sits and trills a simple version of one of the songs from our first album, she says "Anyway, Sean stayed for only the one shot. He said his twin had twisted his arm and caused him to detour from his own date night with his wife. He said date night was extremely important to him since they had four little kids at home, so he had to go. Before he left, he told me about this place and he said we should use it for songwriting. He said he thought we might find it inspiring, and told me to keep the key. He also said he felt like we'd paid our dues, and overcome our demons, and he was going to send us a little love at the Showcase, whatever that meant."

"Probably a shout-out on his socials. He has a huge following," I murmur.

"Maybe. Anyway, Finn and Sean had this rivalry vibe going. After Sean said that, Finn said Sean left too much up to chance. Finn...he..." she rolls her eyes. "Don't get mad, but he kissed me on the lips right in front of his wife, and he called me blood of his blood. Then, he asked me to ask him for a favor. That was kind of weird, so I jokingly asked if I was making a deal with the devil or something. He laughed. He promised he was not the devil, just... well-connected in business. All kinds of business. I said, okay, the one thing we could use some help with is a distribution deal for the new album we're about to record. Finn said he'd look into it."

"James Finn?" I search my memory, trying to recall any notable Finn in the music industry. "I've never heard of a Finn in the business."

She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe they are all just crazy or something. But Faraday is for real. I mean, he's a folk god."

"Yes. Well. We can use all the help we can get. It seems your father was right all along, our LA reputations do us much more harm than good on this side of the music business. So, despite the fact you're a very naughty girl for keeping your little adventure secret for a whole week—especially the part about another man kissing you on the lips—I'm glad for your little night of networking."

There aren't any of the old feelings of anger and resentment about this Finn fellow's indiscretion. We've been playing in bars for over a year. Things like that happen. Men buy her drinks all the time, touch her a little too much during selfies. Several drunk women—including that redhead at the festival where we met Faraday—have layed one on me. It's an occupational hazard of our vocation. It's never a problem between us. We're unbreakable by what others around us do.

She smiles. "I only kept the secret to surprise you with this magical place on this day of all days. I wanted it to be—oooh!" She breaks her train of thought and stares into the distance. Then she points, just above the piano. "Riley. Look."

The view between the piano and its open lid is an impressive mansion, set into the mountains, but it looks small from this remote distance. Squinting, I can just make out a blonde woman standing on a lawn to the side of the house, twirling, her attention focused on the ring of rugrats careening around her. Two little boys with drums. Two little girls with ribbon wands.

Faraday—dark-haired, shirtless, sporting tats that Leed would envy— strides across the lawn, dancing a little as he enters the ring of children. He takes the woman's hands in his. I can't see for sure from this angle but something in his movements makes me think he is singing to her. Then he lifts her hands to kiss them. Something small and green flashes in the sun. An emerald ring, I suppose.

"Is that Faraday's house?" I say. "His wife, his children?"

"Yeah. He says he chose this place so he sees his life from a distance. Get perspective."

"That's beautiful."

"They are beautiful. Four is a good number," she says, watching the children.

"Four is a good but also terrifying number," I say softly. Faraday and his wife are completely outnumbered.

"That's because you're an only child," she dismisses me.

After a moment, I feel like a voyeur, watching Faraday and his family. I shift the piano bench slightly, to change our view to the mountain wilds. "Well, consider me wonderfully surprised by this place. This is a lovely way to spend my Not-Dead-Day. Shall we take advantage and work on a song, then?"

She leans her head on my shoulder. "I was hoping you would say that. There are guitars in that chest," she gestures to the altar where we've been sitting.

"Hmmm...let's try this," I say, putting my fingers on the keys. I don't really play well, but I've had a lick running through my mind for a couple of days, and I translate it to a slow, sweet single-key intro. After I play it a few times, Row adds a couple of chords.

"That's beautiful, the way the chords add drama," I tell her. She hums a melody.

I use my free hand to stroke her hair, and I kiss her temple. I breathe in the air of this magical place and say, "Let's write a love song."

"All our songs are love songs," she laughs at me.

"All our songs are about our old love. The hard, star-crossed, struggling kind. Let's write a song about how we felt on our wedding day. About surrender and faith and finding everything we need in each other."

Every time the woman smiles at me, she looks more beautiful than the last smile. But this one is extra. She sings an opening line as if were waiting to be plucked out of the air.

The collaboration of the lyrics tumbles out. The harmony is there as if we'd sung it before. We've never written a song so simply, so effortlessly, and I've never meant anything I've ever sung to my wife as much as these words that tell her what she means to me. How much her love lifts me, saves me every day. How I see myself and become myself in her loving gaze.

We sing it past Row's tears, past my fatigue from the hike. We sing it until we are as high and clear as this mountain summit.

"Riley it feels like... our vows," she whispers, staring into our eyes. "Not exactly what we said to each other, but the feelings all over again." She closes her eyes and smiles, reveling in her own emotion.

"Brilliant. Every day we sing this song will be a new wedding day." I kiss her forehead, her closed eyes, her nose, finally her mouth. There's a thrill in her kiss, energy born of this place and this moment and this song.

We loathe to leave Faraday's magical hideaway, but we can't stay here forever. I know we'll come here again, to write perfect songs, make perfect moments between us, but for us, magic is magic purely because it's so rare, and inaccessible, and we have to struggle to make it.

As we move to the trailhead, Row holds me back and stands on her tiptoes, putting her chin on my shoulder, calling my attention to the descending path. "Look, Riley. We've done the hard part. It's an easy journey from here."

"You know? I think you might be right, darling."

We leave, our victory song seared into both our souls. A thought occurs to me. Perhaps there's just the one soul now.