A Song That Knew Its Way Home
March 10, 2011
Ari had insisted on staying the extra night in Chicago. Jon wasn’t really crazy about the idea, but when she played the “pregnancy tired” and “too late for Lily” cards after load-out, he conceded.
Of course, neither of those things was true. Ari just knew he wouldn’t push back when it came to the health of his babies—her included.
So they enjoyed another night in a cushy hotel that looked like all the others except for the name engraved over the front door. At least she was well rested now that they were strapped in for the flight to Montreal.
And the surprise brewing there was almost ready, too. It would be by the time they arrived, and the thought of it had her smirking until the jet’s engines roared with a vibration she felt more than heard.
Ari hated this part: the split second where the earth still felt close enough to grab while the metal bird she was nestled inside raced to leave it behind. She didn’t look at Jon as her fingers curled tighter around the armrest.
He noticed anyway and slid his hand over hers like always.
“You good?” he murmured, voice still rough from last night’s show.
“Peachy,” she lied.
He huffed out a laugh and started to sing, low and easy, just for her—never the same song twice, but always for her.
“You’re such a dork.”
“Mm,” he hummed, not pausing.
As the wheels lifted, her grip tightened for a moment, then relaxed as his thumb brushed her skin. By the time the clouds swallowed Chicago whole, she leaned into him and let the rasp of his voice lull her to sleep.
Two hours later, Vicky announced their descent as Montreal spread below, the river cutting clean through the city. She planned it this way—daylight so the loft would glow, so the moment would breathe instead of being lost in midnight exhaustion. Jon squeezed her hand as the plane dipped, and she caught a glimpse of the familiar streets below.
After landing and a short ride from the airport, the car eased into the driveway. Meatball’s tail thumped against the back seat at the familiarity of home. Ari gently unbuckled Lily’s infant carrier, cradling her carefully so she wouldn’t stir.
“Stay here,” she said softly, giving Jon a look that brokered no argument. He raised a brow, his hand brushing hers.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.” She opened the loft door. “I need to put Lily down first, then I’ll come get you.”
Jon laughed. “You and your surprises.”
“Just do it,” she said, disappearing inside.
Afternoon light drifted through the high windows, the muted gray-blue of a March sky softening everything it touched. Dust motes hung in the glow. Ari set Lily down carefully in her pack-and-play, then turned back to the wall and its newest addition. She’d been waiting weeks for this moment. Sure, she’d seen photos, but nothing did it justice.
“Keep your eyes closed,” she said, half-laughing, half-nervous.
He obeyed, one brow lifted in suspicion. The wood floor creaked under his boots as she guided him just short of the wall.
“Okay,” she whispered in his ear. “Now.”
He opened his eyes.
The brick wall, once bare, had come to life. Custom shelves climbed floor to ceiling, open-backed so the old brick showed through. Rows of vinyl stood spines out, neatly organized yet alive with memory, worn edges and faded letters marking decades of sounds she’d grown up with. Between the album clusters, 45s broke the symmetry in cheerful disorder, gleaming in the soft hidden light under the wood trim.
At the center stood a vintage jukebox, trimmed in chrome. Its glass dome glowed faintly blue beneath the old neon Wurlitzer lettering.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing the edges of the small metal labels she’d created—engraved precisely, yet in her own handwriting, every curve and loop hers, each a tiny tribute to memory:
Salvatore V. Moretti
Dad’s Favorite
1984 – First Gig
Jon couldn’t stop smiling, thinking how perfectly she’d preserved every memory.
A warmth spread through her chest as she watched him absorb every detail. His eyes lingered on the 1984 – First Giglabel a moment longer, a faint smile tugging at his lips, like he could picture her sleeping on that trunk. No words were needed. His quiet reverence said it all, and Ari felt the familiar tug of pride and affection she’d come to trust in him.
“I found them when we were packing up the house in California.”
“So, this is why you had a search party out for Lucky.”
“We had a short window to get this done, and we were playing phone tag.”
“And look, he got it done.”
“He did. So, what do you think?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Did you know Sal would play these on full blast when he was between jobs?”
Jon smiled. “Gee, like someone else I know.”
Ari rolled her eyes. “Selling the house, I knew I wanted a part of him here.”
She let herself imagine him here, and what he would think of the display.
“Go on,” she said. “Play something.”
He didn’t answer. He just stood there a moment longer than necessary, shoulders settling, the choice already made. He obviously knew exactly which one it had to be. The mechanical arm whirred to life, a faint crackle filling the loft before the first notes swelled and a familiar voice filled the loft—Sinatra, clear and steady.
“And now, the end is near….”
She froze for a heartbeat, then smiled, blinking fast through the sudden sting in her chest. Jon didn’t need words. He knew. He knew how every note was an anthem she’d shared with Sal.
He pulled her close, his palm warm at her back, solid and familiar. They swayed instinctively to Sinatra’s measured rhythm. Her cheek pressed against his chest, his jaw grazing her temple. Every note carried memory—road trips, backstage chaos, laughter only they understood.
The jukebox’s soft blue glow flickered across her father’s records like a silent witness.
As the chorus rose — “I did it my way” — he held her tight, honoring past and present in the same heartbeat. The loft was silent except for Sinatra and their breathing. She let herself feel the steadiness of Jon, grounding her in the now.
When the song faded, she didn’t pull away. Some things didn’t end. They stayed—steady as a song that knew its way home.
Jon huffed softly. “I’m remembering Sal... and this song.”
Ari smiled. “Like how he’d blast it before and after every show. Or on the tour bus in the early years.”
“Every damn tour,” Jon said. “Soundchecks barely over, crew half-awake, and there he was—a cigarette hanging from his lips, coffee in one hand, cables in the other—belting it out like Madison Square Garden was listening.”
“God, he was terrible,” she said.
“Oh, confidently terrible,” Jon said. “Wrong notes, wrong timing. Zero shame.”
“He earned every ounce of that confidence,” she whispered, brushing the label with his name on it.
“He was proud of the name he built,” Jon added. “And protective as hell once you showed up.”
She arched a brow. “You saying he didn’t like you?”
“Oh, he liked me,” Jon snorted. “Right up until I started looking at you like you were more than just the crew.”
A laugh escaped her. “So, from day one.”
“Basically.”
She leaned in closer. “He warned me long before you came along that all musicians were trouble.”
“From a roadie, the irony was impressive.”
“He wanted me tough. To know my worth. And to never take shit from anyone just because I was a girl.”
Jon’s arm tightened around her. “He did a hell of a job.”
Ari traced a finger across his chest, teasing. “Remember who the boss is.”
“Like you’d ever let me.”
She laughed, tilting her head. “Oh, I won’t. You’ve got a lifetime contract.”
He kissed her. “I’d sign a thousand more.”
Slipping from his embrace, she went to the jukebox, her fingers drumming lightly against the dome. She spotted the one she wanted and pressed its number with practiced ease. Soft notes of Elvis’s “The Wonder of You” floated through the loft—warm, familiar, carrying quiet devotion. Jon’s gaze followed her, a slow, easy smile tugging at his lips.
“Dance with me,” she said, holding out her hand, a teasing glint lighting her eyes.
“Always,” he replied, stepping closer, sliding his hand into hers and pulling her flush against him.
They swayed, relaxed, letting the music curl around them. Jon’s voice, low and almost a whisper at first, drifted to her as it had countless nights over the years.
“You know,” he said, teasing, “I should start charging you for all the times I’ve sung this to you.”
Ari smirked, tipping her chin. “Worth every penny.”
He chuckled, fingers brushing along her cheek. “Then I guess I’m getting a bargain.”
“Keep talking like that,” she warned playfully, “and I might start picking every song on the jukebox from now on.”
“Please do,” he said, grinning. “I’ve got a lifetime subscription to your personal playlist.”
He leaned down slightly, voice raspy, continuing the song. “And when you smile the world is brighter…”
“Shhh,” she laughed. “You’ll wake Lily.”
“I guess I’ll never know the reason why…”
“I ask myself that every day,” she replied, laughing, her fingers tangling through his hair as the music wrapped around them.
They stayed in each other’s arms as the last notes faded into the soft hum of the loft. Outside, dusk settled, casting long shadows across the room.
Jon rested his forehead lightly against hers. “I could stay here forever,” he whispered.
Ari smiled, fingers still tangled in his hair. “Me too.”
In the quiet, the loft held them—memory, music, and love intertwined, steady as a heartbeat—and just as enduring, the space itself a tribute to everything she loved and had lost.