“I came to Drury Street on your granddad’s advice. He knew I was Glen O’Connell’s daughter. He said you’d be able to tell me more about him.” I study his face carefully. He takes my hand, flips it, and trails the lines on the inside with his finger. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “I used to go to Granddad’s church every Sunday when I was a kid. Glen lived behind it. He’d let me listen to his records. He taught me a few notes and helped me string a sentence together when I started writing songs. Taught me how to bleed onto a page. So, yes, we knew each other quite well.
...more
