Deanie and the other waitresses knew something was
up when his "people," vicious-looking men with walkie
talkies and professional sneers, entered ahead
of the star. Then came the photographers, giddy as
prom queens with cold duck, clicking away as
Vic Jenkens opened the clearly marked Krispy
Kream door and feigned an expression of
surprise.
Something about the absurdity of the situation struck
Deanie as riotously funny. She began
to giggle, squinting against the flashing lights,
ignoring the hush of the other waitresses and the
surly glares from Jenkens's people.
Vic Jenkens immediately spun to face her,
cool fury evident in his eyes. Deanie
swallowed, a smile still on her face. He was
much better looking in real life than in print.
"What you laughing at, girl?" His voice was
deep, and although he was not speaking above a
conversational tone, it silenced the whole store.
She cleared her throat and pointed to herself, her
eyes questioning and innocent.
Jenkens's expression softened, and he rubbed a
hand over his carefully whisker-roughened jaw, his
gaze raking Deanie with undisguised enjoyment.
The star liked what he was seeing.
"What were you laughing at?" This time there was a
hint of amusement in his voice.
"Oh, um ..." She shifted in her sensible
shoes and patted her hair under the hairnet.
"It's just that you looked so surprised by those
guys," she said, motioning to the photographers.
"And, well, I mean ... this was more
planned than most weddings I've been to."
At once he grinned, an engaging,
soul-melting and practiced smile. Deanie,
beaming, returned the smile.
And so began one of Nashville's and eventually
--thanks to supermarket tabloid coverage--the
nation's favorite oddball romances. Vic
Jenkens took the adorable waitress out to dinner
that evening, and from then on they were a couple. Vic
Jenkens, that newly reinstated good ol' boy, and
his salt-of-the-earth woman became a
publicist's dream.
And Vic discovered an untapped resource of
songs. On their first date she explained the story
of how she'd written his current hit. Instead of
laughing, he actually believed her, and he called
his manager right then from his car phone. Deanie was not
only paid for the song but was told she'd receive
royalties if Vic ever recorded another of
her tunes. She sent him more tapes the next
day, and by the time he went back on the road, her
songs were included in his concerts.
Wilma Dean Bailey had finally made it in
Nashville, but not at all the way she had
envisioned it. It was stardust, yes. But it was
secondhand stardust, shrugged from the broad and
well-connected shoulders of Vic Jenkens.
Soon into the relationship Deanie felt a
vague uneasiness growing in the pit of her
stomach. She did not want to depend on a man
--any man--for her identity. People were kind to her
now, strangers smiled, but it was for all the wrong
reasons. She had seen firsthand what dependence on
a man could cost a woman. Every time she needed a
reminder, a swift glance at her rail-thin,
overworked mother usually did the trick. Somehow,
Deanie would emerge from Vic's ever-looming
shadow.
She held on to her Krispy Kream job, in
spite of her growing bank account. As other
waitresses came and went, Deanie remained,
pouring coffee and selling doughnuts to Vic's
fans who waited in the shop in vain hopes that their
star would visit. He never did. But the
prospect of seeing him kept crullers and
jelly-filleds moving faster than a brakeless
truck down a mountain.
The romance, such as it was, suited Vic's
agenda perfectly, stilling rumors that he had
gone Hollywood and left the real South
behind. With Deanie occasionally on his fringed arm, the
press could cluck approvingly at his success,
give his records more airplay, make his
videos even more appealing. Who could begrudge such
a nice guy?
He was shrewd enough to keep in constant touch with
Deanie, even when his touring schedule took him
across the country. Sometimes he asked her to play
her new songs over the telephone. Other times
he would have his manager shuttle her most recent
tape to his hotel on the road. The manager
even made sure she had plenty of top-quality
recording cassettes to use on the new machine
Vic had given her for her twentieth birthday.
"It's like giving a baseball bat
to Grandma," Lorna muttered after Deanie showed
her the new equipment.
"What?" Deanie snapped.
"You know what I mean. The gift is for himself,
baby. He's giving himself a bunch of songs for the
price of one fancy-looking machine. That's
all."
Deanie tried to ignore her mother's comment, but
at night, after late conversations with Vic,
Lorna's words came back to her. Every time she
decided to break away on her own, he would come
back with flowers and a hang-dog expression. She
couldn't stand the thought of making anyone unhappy.
Theirs was a curious relationship. Deanie never
did get over feeling like an outsider, as if some
secret joke were being shared by all of Vic's
friends, and she was never told the punch line.
She tried to talk herself into falling in love with
Vic, but the best she could manage was a detached
admiration for his singing voice. She did fall in
love with the way he wrapped his voice around her
songs, wringing from them all the emotion she had ever
managed to instill. And she was truly flattered that
he was showing her so much attention. Yet something
wasn't quite right.
Through reading the music industry trade
publications, she knew that most labels were
favoring singers who performed their own material. The
days of the singer as a mere interpreter of another
writer's songs seemed to be fading; the hot stars
all wrote their own stuff. She could sometimes see
greedy appreciation of her work in Vic's
bluer-than-blue eyes, and he would nod in
subdued acknowledgment. But he never came right out
and praised her. He always seemed to be
doing her a favor by even listening to her meager
efforts, much less recording her songs.
Vic also suggested she smoke cigarettes
to calm her nerves, to sooth her growing
suspicions of his motives. He assured her
that most of the truly successful Nashville names
were two-pack-a-day smokers, and that nonsmokers
were even considered outsiders. Against her better
judgment and to keep his nagging at bay, she began
to smoke. Only after she had become hooked did
she realize he'd probably harbored an
unconscious--or perhaps even conscious--desire
to see her voice ruined. She was never able
to completely quit, but she did manage to cut
down to a few precious cigarettes a day.
Deanie was not stupid. After the initial
enchantment of dating a star dwindled into a dull
routine, she realized how he had been using her.
It had taken one brief conversation to point her
toward reality.
On one of the increasingly rare evenings they spent
together, she decided to make a clean break. The
speech was beautifully set in her mind.
After a candlelight dinner, he turned his eyes
toward her--the same eyes that had been used so
effectively in his last video. He told her,
with wrenching honesty, how much music meant to him,
how his granddaddy Jenkens had taught him to play
the guitar and sing, how they used to huddle together and
listen as their voices blended with the crackling hum
of summer cicadas. His granddaddy was gone now,
he said, his voice rife with emotion. He'd
give his last Grammy to speak but one more time
to his granddaddy, to thank him for the miraculous
gift of music.
She reached up and touched his face, and he
smiled.
Wilma Dean Bailey did not tell Vic
Jenkens what was on her mind that night. He had
shown her a side she'd never seen, had never
imagined existed. He was vulnerable. He needed
her.
Two days later she was brushing her teeth. The
television was on in her bedroom, the cheerful
postdawn sounds of "Good Morning America"
filtering through the din of running water. Then she
heard another voice, familiar, cajoling. In
a daze, she stepped into the bedroom, still blotting
toothpaste foam from her mouth.
There, hunched in a chair across from
Joan Lunden, was Vic Jenkens. She had
almost forgotten about this interview, the reason he had
caught the red-eye to New York the night before.
"It was my great granddaddy Jenkens ..." His
voice broke, and he turned his soulful eyes
on Joan Lunden, who was on the verge of tears
herself.
Vic hadn't been talking to her the other night,
opening up and trusting her with fragile emotions.
Vic Jenkens had been rehearsing.
It was suddenly all clear to her: how he had
been wooing not Deanie but her songs, how he had
managed to keep her ability so well hidden from
everyone but his manager.
With a new determination, Deanie made two
vows to herself. One, she would never allow her work
to be performed by another artist unless she
specifically approved. And two, she would never,
ever, trust another man.
It had taken her seven years to get this chance,
to sing one of her own songs with a hot star like Bucky
Lee Denton. Only her mother knew what the
journey had cost, how agonizing some of the
decisions had been along the way. She was still
virtually unknown to the public, to all but the few
who would slavishly read song credits, or watch
the songwriters awkwardly accepting awards at
some of the televised ceremonies.
Deanie Bailey was unknown but, she hoped, not
for long. She had waited for this moment, worked and
sweated and lost sleep and prayed to be given a
single opportunity to prove herself.
A momentary rush of fear had jolted through her
when she first learned that Bucky Lee would sing the
duet with her, but she managed to push it aside.
As her mother bid her a tearful goodbye at the
airport, Deanie thought of all she was leaving
behind, all that lay ahead.
Nothing could stand in the way of her dreams now.
Except for Bucky Lee Denton.
Chapter 2
If there was one invaluable lesson Deanie had
learned during her years of songwriting success in
the country music industry, it was when to make herself
scarce. As the irritated, jet-lagged, and
exhausted crew struck the video set, Deanie
grabbed a bottle of Coke and a
package of dry-roasted peanuts and slinked
surreptitiously into the background.
Not that it was easy to slink anywhere in her
costume. It was stiff, uncomfortable, and about the
ugliest thing Deanie had laid eyes on since
her mother picked out the dress for her first Country
Music Association Award ceremony. The
headdress felt like a vise on her temples.
She would have gladly removed it, but the damn thing
was held on with so many pins and clips it would have
taken Houdini to unbolt it. As it was, she
didn't want to risk the ire of the costume
director, who had spent the past three hours
sewing rhinestones onto a velvet doublet that
Bucky Lee Denton now refused to wear.
They were losing the light anyway. Even if a
miracle occurred and Bucky Lee emerged from his
trailer ready to work, the sun was sinking, as if it
too wished no further association with Deanie or
the video.
Deanie tried to smile at a trio of departing
Tudor Babes, but they managed to avoid her
gaze. Wisely, she decided not to bum a
cigarette from a large man in overalls wielding
a hammer.
Funny, she mused. Even in England,
Nashville's male-dominated network was in
full force. Everyone was mad at her, not
Bucky Lee, who was the real cause of the
aggravation. She had established herself as a solid
songwriter, an up-and-coming performer, yet all
it took was one flash-in-the-pan guy like Bucky
Lee Denton to make her feel about as welcome
as a hornets' nest at a picnic.
The grounds of the palace were lovely, although she
preferred a less-clipped, more haphazard look
to a garden. The flower beds were subdued, as if
daring a stray bloom to rear its undesirable
head. Every flower was in its assigned place, every
shrub carefully pruned into submission, the
approved rounded shape. It was beautiful in an
artificial, plastic fashion.
The ninety-pence guidebook she had flipped
through during one of the interminable breaks highlighted the
garden and told the illustrious history of the
grounds. The age and splendor of the palace at
Hampton Court was mind-boggling to Deanie, who
paced across the lawn, eyes glued to the booklet,
still clutching the Coke bottle.
Gripping the guidebook between her
teeth, she funneled the peanuts into the bottle,
an old Southern trick. No matter what she
was doing, whatever her state of mind, the sight of
cola bubbling to a head with salty peanuts could
always make her feel immeasurably better, like
came last, when she could eat the sweet, soggy
peanuts at the bottom of the bottle. Pure
bliss.
Finally she glanced up and took an unbroken
look at the grounds, at the palace in the distance.
An odd feeling flowed over her, a sense of
historical smallness in the face of such
grandeur. This was the very soil tilled by the feet of
monarchs and cardinals before anyone had ever heard of
Nashville or Tennessee, when the United
States was still the uncharted wilds of America.
Had one of Henry VIII'S wives ever stood
on the exact spot, the same eerie glow of the
setting sun making the horizon a pastel
smudge?
With another sip of soda, slightly salty
now, she looked about the grounds, barely aware of the
roar of a jet circling overhead. This was a timeless
moment, far removed from the pettiness of a video
schedule. She felt very alone, a faraway sense
of isolation from the rest of her world.
"It's a rather romantic place, is it not?"
Deanie turned to see a dapper gentleman of
about fifty, glancing in the same direction she
was. "I apologize," he added hastily.
"I did not mean to startle you."
"Heck, you didn't startle me." She
smiled.
"I live close by, you see," he
returned the smile. He was English, of
course, with a neatly trimmed beard peppered with
gray. "I saw all the commotion, the trailers and
lorries and show people. I do love having a look
at the workings of a film." He slipped his hands
into the well-worn pockets of his tweed jacket.
"I saw them film Anne of the Thousand Days
years ago, with Richard Burton."
"That must have been neat." Deanie's eyes
widened in interest. "What did he look like?"
"He was rather plain, actually. But his wife at
the time was Elizabeth Taylor, and she was
spectacular. She watched him, and everyone else
watched her."
The man suddenly jumped. "Do forgive
me. My manners have been appalling." He
extended a bony hand. "My name is Neville
Williamson, and I'm afraid I'm a
somewhat pathetic example of British
hospitality. I do hope my fellow countrymen
have demonstrated better style."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Deanie
Bailey."
"Pleasure," he responded crisply.
"Are you enjoying your visit so far? I suppose
it's hardly a holiday to be working."
"To tell you the truth, Mr.
Williamson--"
"Neville, please."
"Neville, then. Well, it's just beautiful
here. All we've done so far is wait around, but
I'll tell you, this sure is a pretty place
to wait around in."
He laughed. "It is indeed. My parents
fell in love here, in fact."
"Really?"
"Really. She had been engaged to another
pilot, a chap in the Royal Air Force during
the war. Well, he was missing and presumed dead.
My father was a close friend of the missing pilot, and
he decided to comfort his poor fianc@ee. Next
thing they knew, they were in love--a grand passion,
it seems. They waited a year to get married, and
I was born right before the war ended. So you see, this
has always been one of my family's favorite
spots."
"And the other man never did show up?" Deanie
swept a strand of hair from her forehead.
"Sadly, no. But they named me after him. My
first name is his surname, you see. He was an only
son, and they wanted the name to continue."
Deanie whistled through her teeth. "I love your
phrase, "a grand passion." That would sure
make a dandy song. Could I use it?"
"Excuse me?" He seemed genuinely
perplexed.
"I write songs, and that story would make a
terrific song. Would your parents mind if I
use it?"
"No--well I mean, they're gone now. It
wouldn't hurt anyone, and it might be rather nice to have
their story immortalized in song."
"A grand passion," she repeated, testing the
sound. "It sure is a great story. I just hope
I can do it justice."
"Well, I must be off," he said after a few
comfortable moments. "My wife makes a splendid
tea every afternoon at this time. If I'm late, she
eats all my favorite scones herself. Beastly
woman." It was said with such affection that Deanie
realized it was Neville himself who was anxious
to get to his tea.
"It was wonderful meeting you," she said, waving
goodbye.
"The pleasure was mine." Before he left he
paused. "It just came to me! Who you resemble, that
is. At first I thought you looked rather like Miss
Taylor, when she was here watching Richard
Burton. But it just occurred to me that you bear a
spectacular resemblance to Natalie Wood.
Have you ever been told that?"
Deanie winked. "Once or twice. But I
thank you."
She smiled, and he gave a brisk wave before
walking away. He sure was a nice old guy,
Once Upon a Rose Page 3
