“Is that all? Missing people? Or are you chewing on something you can’t quite name?” Fox wished he had his shirt off, so he could feel less exposed. And what sense did that make? “Same way you came in here, poking at me until I gave in and agreed to have the damn talk . . . Maybe you’re just doing the same with this place. Poking around until you find the way in. But you know what? If it doesn’t happen, it doesn’t make you guilty of anything, Hannah.”
Slowly, gratitude spread across her features, and he let out a breath. “Thanks.” She stared at something invisible in the distance. “Maybe you’re right.”
Desperate for some way to get the attention off himself, at least while he was attempting to dole out comfort, he coughed into his fist. “Want me to take a look at them? I might recognize one or two.”
“Really? You still . . . sing shanties on the boat?”
“I mean, not very often. Sometimes Deke starts one off. Not joining in kind of makes you a dick. Case in point, Brendan never sings along.”
That got a laugh out of her, and some weight left his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll go grab them.” She seemed nervous about the whole thing, so they might as well get comfortable. While Hannah was in the guest room, he put their bowls in the sink and moved to the living room, taking a spot on the couch. A minute later, she returned with a faded blue folder stuffed with papers and sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, pausing slightly before opening it. She ran a finger over a line of script, brows drawn in concentration, then handed him a stack.
Fox scanned a few lines on the first page, didn’t recognize the lyrics, but the second one was very familiar. “Ah, yeah. I know this one well. The old-timers still sing it sometimes in Blow the Man Down.” His chuckle betrayed his disbelief. “I didn’t know Henry Cross wrote this. You always kind of assume these songs are a million years old.”
Hannah shifted into a cross-legged position on the floor. “So you know that one. Can you sing it?”
“What? Like, right now?”
She gave him puppy-dog eyes, and his jugular stretched like the skin of a drum. Sucker. But knowing he could help, knowing he could do something to potentially make her happy? That was like holding the keys to a kingdom. Even if he had to sing to get to the other side. The desire to give Hannah what she needed had him adjusting the paper in his lap, clearing his throat.
There was a huge possibility this wouldn’t mean much to her, either, but when she looked at him like that, he had to try. “I mean, if it means that much to you . . .”
In a voice that definitely wouldn’t win him any contests, Fox started to sing “A Seafarer’s Bounty.”
Chapter Twelve
Born unto the fog
And ferried by the tide,
To the womb of his ship
Where he earns his pride,
A seafarer’s bounty
Means coin in hand and no one at his side.
The hunt has no end.
It’s a game, it’s the fame.
A love to defend.
A treasure to claim.
Boots to the deck, men, come on now, let’s ride.
Trade the glass
For my lass.
And the wild
For my child.
Trade the wind
For her.
Trade the mayhem
For them.
And it’s anchors down. There’s a life beyond the tide.
Treasure is not mere
Rubies and gold.
When a seafarer finds his warmth
From the cold.
No longer are the deep blue waves his only bride.
Home is the fortune,
Health is the prize.
To lie in her arms,
To look in their eyes,
By the laws of the land, a sailor will learn to abide.
Trade the glass
For my lass.
And the wild
For my child.
Trade the wind
For her.
Trade the mayhem
For them.
And it’s anchors down. There’s a life beyond the tide.
Soon, loves, soon.
Soon, loves, soon.
One last ride,
At the rise of the moon.
Then it’s home to my bounty.
We’ll write our family’s tune.
Hannah was eleven when she got her first pair of headphones.
She’d always sung along loudly to whatever played on satellite radio. Always had a knack for remembering the words, knowing exactly where the tempo picked up. But when she got those headphones, when she could be alone with the music, that’s when her enjoyment of it soared.
Since they were a gift from her stepfather, of course they were completely over the top. Pink noise-canceling ones that were almost too heavy for her neck to hold up. So she’d spent hours upon hours in her room lying down, head supported by a pillow, playing the music her mother had loaded onto her phone. Billie Holiday had transported her to the smoky jazz rooms of the past. The Metallica she’d downloaded, despite lacking her mother’s permission, made her want to rage and kick things. When she got a little older, Pink Floyd made her curious about instruments and method and artistic experimentation.