Chesapeake 10 - A Seaside Christmas by Sherryl Woods Page A

were going to be a big-time son writer,” Dillon Johnson said, stepping into the rehearsal hall just as Jenny set aside her guitar. “That was incredible.”
    A smile spread across Jenny’s face at the sight of her first real boyfriend. He was taller now and had filled out his lanky frame. The boy she’d last seen years ago was now a man, and a good-looking one at that.
    “Dillon! Where’d you come from?” she said, jumping up to give him a hug. “And look at you, wearing a suit and tie and all grown up. How’d that happen?”
    He laughed. “Time passes, at least for most of us mortals. You, however, look exactly the same. Still beautiful.”
    Jenny doubted that. It had been hours since she’d run a comb through her hair, and her lipstick no doubt was history. She’d chosen her most comfortable pair of jeans and her warmest sweater this morning, but neither was exactly fashionable.
    She had a real superstitious streak about that sweater, though. She’d worn it when she’d written her first big hit, scribbling lyrics onto scraps of paper late into a cold, snowy night in Nashville. For every song thereafter, she’d made it a point to pull on the same sweater when she’d first started writing down ideas and words. This morning she’d wanted to bring that same luck to everything she wrote for Bree’s holiday production.
    “Liar,” she teased. “But thank you for the compliment just the same. What brings you by?”
    “Ethel mentioned that you were in town—”
    “Of course she did,” Jenny said, surprised there hadn’t been a banner announcing her arrival on Main Street.
    “She does like to be the bearer of good tidings,” Dillon said. “Anyway, I had a few minutes between appointments. You probably heard I’m working with my dad now in his insurance business.”
    “I did hear that,” Jenny confirmed. “I have to say I was surprised.”
    His expression turned sheepish. “You mean because I always swore I’d rather die than sell insurance?”
    “You were pretty emphatic about it,” she recalled.
    “When I got out of school, there weren’t a lot of jobs around. I needed to work.”
    “That’s right. You’re married and the father of a little girl,” Jenny said. Bree had hesitantly passed on that information, clearly uncertain how Jenny would feel about the news. She’d had a momentary twinge of regret, but that was all.
    “Mostly true,” he said, a shadow passing over his face. “Deanna moved out and filed for divorce a few months ago. She said she was tired of competing with my past.”
    Jenny frowned at that. “Meaning?”
    “You, of course. She said she could tell that every time one of your songs came on the radio, I started thinking about what might have been. It probably didn’t help that they were all downloaded onto my iPod, too.”
    Shocked, Jenny sat back down, picked up her guitar and held it protectively in front of her, her fingers idly strumming as she bought time to consider what he’d said.
    “But, Dillon, surely that wasn’t true,” she responded eventually, hoping his wife had been wrong. “You and I called it quits when we left for college. That was a long time ago. We hadn’t even been in touch.”
    “I told her that.” He shrugged. “She didn’t believe it, especially after we moved to town and everyone she met mentioned our history. I don’t think they did it to be cruel. It’s just that people in Chesapeake Shores have long memories, and you’ve become a celebrity in the music world. Everyone in town is so proud of knowing you.”
    Jenny shied away from the description. “A celebrity? Hardly. Most people have no idea who wrote the songs. The focus is on the artist who performs them.”
    “Unless the writer is romantically involved with the performer, I imagine,” he suggested quietly.
    Jenny sighed. He was right about that. Because of her relationship with Caleb, she’d been in the public eye more than most songwriters who weren’t performers