Page 1 of Archer

Chapter 1

Harper

The ocean stretched endlessly before me, all steel blue and white foam beneath a cloudless January sky. I sat cross-legged on Gram’s back deck, guitar balanced across my lap as I tried to find the melody that had been teasing the edges of my mind all morning.

Three chords. That’s all I had. And so far they’d gone nowhere and said nothing.

Instinct told me there was something there, I just couldn’t figure out what. There was too much on my mind. Too many fears and worries to write a love song, or any song.

Dammit!

I strummed the chords again, listening, changing the progression slightly. Better. Maybe.

The sea breeze caught my hair, lifting the long red strands around my face and shoulders. I’d given up trying to tame it hours ago. Out here, with nothing but ocean, sky, and the cry of gulls overhead, it was pointless to fight the freedom. My hair understood the situation.

Soon, the sun would add to the thick blanket of freckles already scattered across my face. Didn’t matter that it was barely fifty degrees, my complexion was always begging for a reason to increase the collection.

Gram had called my freckles angel kisses.

The familiar ache of her loss rattled in my chest. It’d been six months since she’d passed quietly in a Tennessee hospital, but the grief still ambushed me at the strangest moments. Sometimes it was just the way sunlight hit the water, or the smell of jasmine in the air. She’d planted the fragrant flowers along the cottage’s foundation decades ago, and I longed to see them bloom again in the spring.

Sitting here, on the back deck of her beloved beachfront home, made me feel closer to her than I had in too long. She’d shared her love of poetry and country music with me on this porch, along with a million memories I prayed would never fade.

If she was here now, she’d probably say, sometimes life is like the riptides, you have to learn to move with the flow.

Fighting some battles would only kill you.

I shook away the thought and returned my attention to the instrument in my lap. Then I played the three chords again, humming possibilities. But nothing clicked.

Writer’s block sucked.

Until now, I’d assumed the people who claimed to have a creative block simply weren’t applying themselves. “Lesson learned,” I muttered.

I’d been here for two weeks, surrounded by peace and tranquility, yet I hadn’t finished a single stanza. I hadn’t even come close.

What was my problem?

Never mind. I knew the answer to that.

My phone buzzed on the table beside me, and I glanced at the screen. Alexis, my manager, again. Her third call today.

I let it go to voicemail.

The phone buzzed immediately afterward with a text.

Alexis: Harper, the label wants a timeline on new material. Can you give me something?

I set the guitar aside and typed back.

Harper: Working on it. Need more time.

Her response was instant, probably trying to finish the conversation before I put my phone down again.

Alexis: How much more time?

I sighed.

Harper: As much as it takes.