As if it’s that much a secret.
Smoky heat and the intricate, meditative twang of a blues progression drifted out as she pushed open the glass-paned door. Quietly, she closed it behind herself and moved to the battered leather recliner set to one side of the pot-bellied woodstove. It was her favorite spot in the room—warm, near a window that gave her good light, and best of all, provided a good vantage point from which she could observe Daddy, his hands moving deliberately over his Gretsch archtop, the raw beauty of the music making her insides hurt—in a good way. Reaching over the arm of the chair, she picked up one of her ever-present sketch pads and a graphite pencil, using light, sure strokes to capture the curve of Daddy’s back, the delicate tension in his hands as he coaxed out the sobs and wails that he’d said his Louisiana granddaddy told him made the blues the truest music of the heart.