Home Is Where You Are Read online

  Table Of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Home Is Where You Are

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Melissa Grace

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes). For more information, contact at: www.melissagracewrites.com.

  First paperback edition: October 2020

  Cover art by Elle Maxwell

  Cover copyright © 2020 by Elle Maxwell

  Interior formatting by Streetlight Graphics

  www.streetlightgraphics.com

  ISBN: 978-1-7355646-0-9

  www.melissagracewrites.com

  For Granny.

  A piece of you will always reside in the heart of every strong woman I write about.

  But more importantly, in the heart of the woman who writes about them.

  Love you special.

  “Find out who you are and do it on purpose.”

  —Dolly Parton

  Chapter 1

  Liv

  “That’s it,” my best friend Ella Claiborne said. She slammed her coffee mug on the wrought iron patio table so hard it shook. “I’m getting you out of this house.”

  It was the first Sunday of October and an unusually cool one at that. Autumn in Nashville was often just an extension of summer, but a cold front had left the mid-state overcast with highs in the upper fifties.

  “I am out of the house,” I protested. I pulled the sleeves of my sweater over my hands to ward off the afternoon chill. “I’m on the patio.”

  “Olivia Faith Sinclair,” Ella scolded me, and I winced. It was the first time anyone had said my full name, complete with my maiden name, since my divorce had been finalized six months ago. Her tone softened as she read my expression. “You know what I meant.”

  “I’ve been out of the house plenty.” The wind blew the Nashville Scene magazine on the table open, and I avoided Ella’s stern gaze by picking it up and fumbling through it. “It’s not like I’ve not been working. You would know.” I was the owner and head baker of Livvie Cakes Bakery and Cupcakery, one of the most popular bakeries in the greater Nashville area. Ella worked alongside me handling the business and marketing side of things. We were nestled in the heart of the 12 South neighborhood, which was just down the street from my little white bungalow. The bungalow I had to purchase when my husband decided he didn’t want to be married anymore—at least not to me.

  “You work twelve-hour days, and then you come home to an empty house where you eat Pop-Tarts for dinner in your sweatpants and watch Grey’s Anatomy.” She tucked a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear. “I’d hardly call that getting out.”

  “My house is not empty. Mama’s here.” Mama was the ornery tuxedo cat I’d adopted from the humane association a couple of months ago. “She doesn’t even hiss at me when I feed her now. We’re making great progress.”

  “Well, Mama won’t be the only hostile kitty around here if you keep going the way you’re going.” She flashed her eyes down to my lady parts and grinned that mischievous grin of hers. It was the same one that got me in heaps of trouble when we were younger, back when I was fun. That version of me felt long gone.

  “Bold of you to assume my kitty hasn’t been hostile for years now.” I snorted and flipped a page of the magazine only to see a picture of my ex-husband staring back at me. I swallowed hard, taking in the face I knew like the back of my hand. Now that face was standing beside a gorgeous, busty, and fiery redhead that could have easily been a real-life Jessica Rabbit in her sparkly red dress.

  Benton Wyatt was handsome in a Patrick Dempsey sort of way. He was tall and sinewy with wavy salt and pepper hair. His handsome face never seemed to age even though he was a few years older than me. He also happened to be one of the most sought after record executives in country music. His label, 6th & 15th Records, housed some of country music’s hottest artists.

  It was a world that felt both familiar and completely foreign to me. When I met Ben, I wasn’t even old enough to drink. I was just a girl with a dream and a guitar. Not long after we got married, I walked off the stage for the last time. My dreams no longer fit with the ones he had.

  Ben knew talent when he saw it, and that’s how I knew talent wasn’t something I possessed. Because he never saw it in me. Sure, I could sing on karaoke night or around a bonfire with friends and people would always be impressed, but I didn’t have it. That magical, indescribable quality that turned ordinary people into superstars.

  I chewed my bottom lip, skimming over the caption that informed me Jessica Rabbit was actually Shelby Kirkland, a 20-something up and coming country artist who recently signed with 6th & 15th.

  Ella snatched the magazine from my grasp and scanned it with her pale blue eyes. “That son of a bitch.”

  “She’s quite lovely,” I said bitterly. “Perhaps she has a fully functioning uterus.” I picked up my coffee cup and cradled it in my hands. Ella looked at me, her brows furrowed with concern.

  Starting a family had been a point of contention for me and Ben. We both wanted one, but my body had been hellbent on not cooperating.

  “I’m not letting you do this to yourself anymore.” Ella closed the magazine and slapped it on the table. “He’s moving on, and it’s time you did too.” She leaned forward, placing her hands on my knees. “The blaming and the self-loathing? It stops right fucking now.”

  “I’m not self-loathing.” I pouted and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of the patio door.

  That was a fucking lie, and I knew it.

  “That’s horse shit, Liv.” One of the things I loved and hated most about Ella was her knack for always calling me on my shit. “You gave up your dreams. You gave up your entire life for that man, Olivia, and I’m not letting you waste another second on that hoity-toity fuck face. I’m getting you out of this house, and that is final.”

  I grumbled as I stared at the gnat that found its way inside my mug, drowning in the mighty sea of my oat milk latte.

  “Why don’t we go to Santa’s Pub tonight and do some karaoke? I haven’t heard you sing in forever.”

  “I don’t think so.” I shook my head. That was the last
thing I wanted to do. I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to pull out my road-worn Taylor guitar. When I moved, I shoved the hard case in the back of my closet behind my winter coat so that it could no longer look at me with the disappointment I felt. “Besides, what would you do with Grace?”

  “First of all, she’s seventeen.” Ella extracted the coffee mug from my hands and placed it on the table, forcing me to focus on her. “The kid is going off to college next year. It’s not like she needs a babysitter.”

  “Not karaoke. Not this time.” I pleaded as a knowing smile spread across her face. “What.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I know how I’m getting you out of the house,” she informed me all too cheerfully. “You know those concert tickets and backstage passes I splurged on for Grace’s birthday? Well, the show is tomorrow, and now her friend Lexi can’t go because she’s got mono.”

  “I could have told Lexi that kissing boys was a bad idea.”

  “My dear, Lexi’s loss is your gain,” Ella continued, completely ignoring me. “You’re going with us.”

  “Won’t that cramp Grace’s style? Being out on the town with two old ladies?”

  “We are not old,” Ella rolled her eyes.

  “Doesn’t she have another friend she can invite? What about Becca?”

  “She and Becca are on the outs right now. Anyway, when was the last time the three of us went on an adventure like this together?”

  “When we took her to that Walking Dead convention last summer and nearly got trampled by hundreds of women trying to get a look at Norman Reedus.”

  “And wasn’t that fun?”

  Fun was certainly not how I remembered it, but I knew that arguing was pointless. Ella had already made up her mind. “What band was it again?”

  “Midnight in Dallas,” she squealed. “I practically had to sell my soul to get these tickets.”

  I stared at her blankly. “Sounds like the name of a Lifetime movie.”

  She picked up the magazine and swatted me over the head with it. “Even you know who Midnight in Dallas is. They only swept the freaking Grammys this year. Remember that song we heard at the shop last week that you couldn’t stop listening to? ‘Fortress’? That’s their newest one.”

  “The one with the sexy voice?” I asked, my interest admittedly a little piqued. I remembered the sound of that soulful voice. I couldn’t get it out of my head last week as I worked on our new Pumpkin Praline cupcake recipe. At the time, I didn’t know if the song was by a band or solo artist. All I knew was the voice behind it was like a velvet robe for the soul.

  “That’s the one!” Her excitement overflowed like an uncorked bottle of champagne, and I knew there was no turning back. “We’ll get dressed up, go to dinner at Adele’s, and then head to the Ryman. It’ll be great.”

  “You do realize I haven’t dressed up basically this entire decade, right?”

  “You’re not getting out of this,” Ella said, eyeing me. “You always look amazing. You don’t give yourself enough credit, Liv. You can wear jeans and a T-shirt and still look like a fucking rockstar.”

  “That’s good news seeing how that’s almost all I own.”

  “So you’ll go?” Ella reached for my hands and gave them an excited squeeze.

  I sighed, but I knew I couldn’t say no. Ella needed this night out as much as I did. “Yes. Yes, I’ll go.”

  I cued up a Midnight in Dallas radio station on my phone while I worked the next morning. I found myself swaying to the sounds of that soulful, sexy as hell voice while I swirled a pastry bag over dozens of cupcakes. Their sound fit right in with the usual suspects on my playlists these days: The Lumineers, Lord Huron, The Civil Wars, Hozier, and even Ed Sheeran. Don’t get me wrong. My heart would always bleed country, but lately, my soul had been venturing over into indie rock and even a little pop.

  Mondays were generally our slowest day of the week. Ella was off since Grace’s school had an Inservice Day, so it felt extra quiet. We had some large orders come in that morning, so I worked right through lunch, completely lost in the music. It wasn’t until Katie Kelley, our other pastry chef, spoke up that I even realized what time it was.

  “Hey, Liv.” Katie’s sweet, soft-spoken voice broke through the Midnight in Dallas trance I was in. “Didn’t you say you needed to dip out a little early? It’s a quarter to four already.” Her honey-colored ponytail flipped as she turned to point at the clock.

  “Shit.” I sighed. Days like today I was glad to be only a short walk from home. “I have a couple dozen left to go.”

  “Girl, get out of here.” Katie waved me off, taking the pastry bag from my hands. “I’ve got this, and I’m opening up tomorrow. Don’t you worry about a thing. You and Ella have fun tonight.”

  When Katie joined our team four years ago, Ella and I had been able to breathe a lot easier. She was only a few years younger than us, and she came with very little baking experience, but now she was a dear friend, brilliant pastry chef, and our most trusted employee. Katie was the friend who showed up with delicious home-cooked meals for me after Ben asked for a divorce. She was a little on the shy side, but dependable to a fault. Last spring when Ella and I both managed to come down with the flu, Katie showed up on our doorsteps with care packages of homemade chicken soup, Gatorade, tea, and trashy magazines. She did this all while keeping things running smoothly at the bakery and making thirteen wedding cakes for one of our busiest weekends of the season.

  “You’re a lifesaver.” I kissed her on the cheek before whipping off my apron and exchanging it for my tiny leopard-print cross body purse on the hook by the back door.

  “You better come back with some good stories tomorrow,” Katie called after me.

  “Right,” I mumbled. I turned the knob on the back door, giving it a shove with my hip, and I was off. I jogged down the sidewalk along the road behind the bakery. Everything surrounding the businesses of 12th Avenue South was purely residential with cozy, renovated bungalows, and a few new townhouses. Parking was hard to come by due to the eclectic mix of eateries and boutiques that lined 12th Avenue, so cars were always stacked like dominos along the tree-lined street.

  The leaves that had already fallen crunched beneath my feet as I practically sprinted the entire two and a half blocks home. I quickly let myself in the front door, narrowly avoiding Mama’s tail as I skittered past her.

  “Sorry, Mama.” She hissed as I threw my bag on the small table inside the foyer and ran down the hall to my bedroom. My phone chirped with a text notification from my back pocket, and I knew exactly who it was before I even looked at it.

  Ella: We’re picking you up in the Lyft at 5:15. You better look hot!

  I rolled my eyes as I ticked off my quick reply.

  Liv: If by hot you mean in the middle of a hot flash, I’m already there.

  She shot back an eye-roll emoji, and I pulled up a pop radio station on my phone before tossing it on the bed. I half-stripped, half-danced my way to the bathroom to the sound of “Drop It Low” by Ester Dean.

  I took the fastest shower of my life, but took the time to blow out my long, dark hair, which was already far more than I usually did. Humming along to the radio, I piled mascara on as though my life depended on it. I finished by slicking on a lipstick that I probably bought back when Taylor Swift was still singing country songs. I threw on some ripped black jeans, a Queen shirt, and a jacket since the unusually cool weather showed no signs of leaving anytime soon.

  I headed over to the dresser and spritzed myself with my favorite fragrance, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I returned the perfume to its home beside an old photograph of me and Ella.

  Not half bad for a thirty-something divorcee with a hostile kitty.

  My phone pinged from the bed, and I giggled to myself. I grabbed it and ran back down the hallway as Mama scrambled across the f
loor with an annoyed meow.

  “I’ll see you later, Mama,” I said to her, snatching my purse from the foyer and starting toward the door. I was still shoving my feet inside my boots when the door rattled shut behind me. I bounded down the sidewalk toward Ella and Grace in the backseat of an SUV with the Lyft sign illuminated on the dash.

  “So the meet and greet is before the show?” Ella asked Grace, furrowing her brow. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, mom,” Grace assured her for the third time since we’d arrived at the Ryman Auditorium. After a quick dinner at Adele’s, one of our favorite places for dinner and Sunday brunch, we hopped in another Lyft for the short drive over to the venue.

  The Ryman Auditorium was a show stopper, no matter who was on the schedule. With its stained-glass windows and perfect acoustics, it was known as the Mother Church for a reason. Every show there felt like coming home in a way that can only be described as spiritual.

  Even being from Nashville, I’d only been to the Ryman a handful of times. The most recent being the last time I’d accompanied Ben to an event about five years ago. One of his artists, a young blonde who’d been hailed as the next Carrie Underwood, was playing for the first time. I sat in the front row watching as Ben beamed up at her proudly, wondering if he would ever look at me that way. I shook my head in an effort to remove the memory from my mind.

  After we checked in with our tickets and passes, we were instructed to follow a tall, dark-haired usher to the backstage area. We felt the audience erupt as we wound our way behind our guide through roadies and concert-goers in the underbelly of the auditorium. The sound of a bass drum began to thud, and the opening notes of a song began to play.

  Grace squealed, her loose blonde waves shimmying over her shoulders as she grabbed Ella’s arm and looped her other arm through mine. “That must be Sam Corbyn.”

  “Who is that again?” I leaned into her ear so as not to display my ignorance too loudly.

  “The opening act.” She sighed, her eyes going all star crossed. “He sings that ‘Blue Skies’ song. And he’s British. He’s so hot!”