by Meg Benjamin
At least tonight she’d get some sleep. Eventually. She smiled to herself. She’d need to give Joe a call before she went back to the inn.
She rounded the corner of the building, heading toward her car in the parking lot, and stopped cold. Somebody was leaning against the car. A very large somebody. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and took a closer look.
And recognized him. Of course. She should have seen this coming. I will kill Darcy Cunningham.
She swallowed hard, then managed to paste on a wildly insincere smile as she walked closer. “Hi.”
He nodded, giving her a half smile. “Evening, Ms. Carmody.”
She unlocked the car and put her guitar in back. “I guess you want to talk about this, but could we do it somewhere else? I swear I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but I’d like to get out of the parking lot.”
“Sure.” He pushed himself away from the car. “Why don’t you come back to my place? I have a feeling this could require a beer, and no offense, but I’ve got better beer than you do.”
“Right.” She blew out a breath. “I don’t suppose you’d let me change first?”
He shook his head. “I want a closer look at your current version before you do that. I can drive you back to your place later if you want.”
“Okay. I’ll follow you.”
“Right.” He turned toward his truck, then looked back. “One question—should I be mad about this? Because right now I’m not.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “You’ve got a right to be mad at me for taking so long to tell you about this, but I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you. I just didn’t know how to go about it exactly.”
He shrugged. “Okay. I’ll buy that. For now.” He turned toward his truck again, while she got into her car.
The drive back seemed a lot longer than the drive over, but that was partly because she was trying to work out some kind of coherent story to tell him. I used to be a small deal in Nashville? Once upon a time I thought I was going to be hot stuff? Then I found out how lukewarm I really was?
She followed Joe up the drive to his cabin, parking in the spot next to his. For a moment, she wondered if she should leave the Martin in the car, but again, that really wasn’t much of a question. Without the Martin, she was out of business. And the case held her take for the evening.
Joe watched her stride up the walk, her guitar case in her hand. “I don’t want to leave it in the car,” she explained.
He shrugged, then opened the door for her. She couldn’t tell if he thought bringing the case inside was a faux pas. If so, he could add it to her tab. She put it next to the couch in his minuscule living room.
He stared at the case for a long moment, then glanced back at her. He shook his head. “Enough. I want to know what’s going on. I need to know what’s going on.” He stepped back into his minuscule kitchen and opened the refrigerator door, emerging with a couple of bottles of beer. “Here,” he said, handing her one. “Sit down while I open these and then start wherever you want to. Maybe beginning with the basic question—What the hell are you doing here?”
She sighed, dropping down on his couch. “I’m trying to build a life for myself. I’m a chicken farmer moonlighting as a singer. Or I’m a singer moonlighting as a chicken farmer. Take your pick.”
“Why?” He took a healthy swig of his beer.
“Because I’m not sure I’m good enough as either one to do that and nothing else.”
Joe stared at her, holding his bottle loosely. “Okay, that’s a crock,” he said finally. “You’re a smokin’ singer. I may not know much about the music business, but I know a great singer when I hear one. So what makes you think you’re not?”
MG took a sip of her beer. Joe was right: it was a lot better than the stuff she usually drank. Maybe that would make this story easier to tell. “I used to be a singer-songwriter. I worked in Nashville for a couple of years.”
Joe nodded. “Okay. So?”
“So. I was doing all right. I got my stuff on a couple of albums by other people, but nothing big. I thought it was pretty good, though. So I signed with this manager, a guy who’d worked with a lot of singers who’d made it to the big time.”
Joe narrowed his eyes. “And that wasn’t a good thing?”
She shrugged. “Well, it was and it wasn’t. I mean he got me booked into bigger clubs than I’d been able to do on my own, places where they actually paid me a percentage of the take instead of passing the hat.”
“But?”
“But.” She grimaced. “He didn’t exactly like me the way I was.”
Joe frowned. “Why not? You sounded great tonight.”
“The kind of thing I do isn’t the kind of thing Nashville does. Or not usually, anyway.” She took a breath. “Plus, I don’t exactly look like a Nashville star.” Which was a sort of mortifying thing to admit.
Joe set his beer down. “What the hell were they looking for?”
“Taylor Swift.” She slid down further on the couch, resting her bottle on her thigh. “Carrie Underwood. Jennifer Nettles from Sugarland. Blonde, pretty, skinny, singing the kind of stuff that ends up on American Idol.”
“You don’t qualify?”
She shrugged. “I could sing that stuff, but I couldn’t make it sound like they did. And dressing me up like them was sort of like the whole ‘lipstick on a pig’ idea.”
Joe narrowed his eyes. “Okay, I’m going to let that go because we both know it’s another crock. What happened with the singing?”
“My manager kept throwing out the songs I wrote. He said they weren’t commercial, and he was probably right. Anyway, they weren’t Nashville commercial. After a while I got a sort of block about writing songs at all. Nothing I did seemed right.”
“How about the singing?” He picked up his bottle again.
“Well, seeing as how he wouldn’t let me sing the songs I wanted to sing, that didn’t work out all that well either. I sang the same stuff everybody else was singing, only I didn’t sing it as well. The bookings dropped off. I wasn’t making money for either of us.”
Joe frowned again. “Why do I have a feeling this doesn’t end well?”
She blew out a breath. “It doesn’t. My manager dropped me after a few months. He said I was never going to make it as a country singer because I didn’t understand how to sell my stuff to an audience. And he said my songs wouldn’t sell because people stopped singing crap like that in the seventies. Basically, he said I sucked as a singer and a songwriter.”
“Nice guy.” He set his beer bottle down on the coffee table, leaning toward her.
She wrapped her arms around herself. “He had a point. At least from his point of view. Then I found out Grandpa had had a stroke and was in the hospital. My mom couldn’t come back to nurse him—she’s got a job in Albuquerque. It was either go back to singing in dives for tips and trying to sell songs that nobody wanted or come here and nurse my grandfather until he died. So I did what I had to do. It wasn’t such a big decision. I loved my grandpa, and I didn’t love what I was doing anymore.”
Joe nodded slowly. “Okay, all of that makes sense, although some of it sucks. What I don’t get is why you’re so spooked about letting people know you sing.”
MG’s shoulders felt suddenly tight. She flexed slightly. “I just… I don’t have my mojo back yet, I guess. I’m afraid if I tell anybody I’m trying to be a singer again, that might jinx the whole thing. And I’m afraid my ex-manager was right—people will come and hear me and think, Wow, she really sucks!”
“People including me?” He shook his head, one corner of his mouth inching up. “Sorry, darlin’, but that’s crap.”
She leaned her head against the back of the couch. “I didn’t say it made sense. It’s just the way I feel. I need to get my feet under me again before I can start making the rounds, looking for gigs. Right now I’m only taking the bookings that fall into my lap, and I’m not telling anybody about it
. I don’t want to disappoint anybody, most of all me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “How many bookings have fallen into your lap so far?”
“I’m a regular with Dewey now. And I’ve got a shot at the Faro during the Wine and Food Festival. I guess if I do okay, they might bring me back.”
His grin was more definite this time. “The Faro’s got a bigger audience than Oltdorf. If they want you, you must be doing okay.”
“Maybe I am, but I still feel a little shaky. I need a few more weeks at Oltdorf, assuming the people there go on being nice.”
There was a moment of silence, then Joe shook his head. “I swear to god, I didn’t know what you were going to say when I saw you on that stage tonight. But I can pretty much guarantee this wasn’t it. I don’t suppose my telling you you’re really good and that guy in Nashville was an asshole would make any difference.”
MG sighed. “Probably not. Thanks anyway, though. You got anything to eat around here? I was too nervous to eat supper and I’m starved.”
He set his bottle back on the table. “Well, darlin’, if it’s food you want, you came to the right place. And I can probably take care of a few other needs too.” He gave her a slow smile. “Assuming that’s agreeable, that is.”
She let her lips inch up into a smile, feeling the heat all the way to her toes. “Agreeable doesn’t begin to describe it,” she said. “But I better eat first.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Let me see what I can do about that whole hunger thing.”
Chapter Fourteen
Asking Joe if he had anything to eat turned out to be sort of like asking a Newcastle resident if he had any coal. He fixed MG a ham and cheese sandwich on Russian rye that made her want to weep with pleasure, particularly when he added a sliced heirloom tomato and some leftover potato salad. She sat at the table munching happily.
He dropped down across from her. “So are you playing at Oltdorf again?”
She nodded. “It’s turned into this ongoing gig. He’s using me to fill in as an opening act on Wednesdays and sometimes on Saturdays. Then the guy from the Faro offered me a spot during the Wine and Food Festival.”
He frowned. “You mean Tom?”
“No, the big guy. Chico.”
Joe poured himself a glass of tea. “Since when does Chico arrange for musical acts?”
“Since always, apparently. He said he’s the one who knows local music so the owner has him book the acts.” She paused. “I’ll have to work on a set list for them that’s different from Oltdorf. They’re a lot more big time.” She rubbed a hand across her suddenly tight shoulders.
Joe leaned back in his chair. “Okay, here’s another question—just for the sake of asking. Why sing at all? If it makes you tired and unhappy, why do it?”
MG looked up at him. Her adrenaline had begun to wear off a little and her muscles suddenly felt sore. “You mean why not just tend the chickens and peel the carrots?”
He shrugged. “Something like that. Why put yourself through all of this?”
She closed her eyes, massaging her shoulders again, then shook her head. “Because I have to, I guess. It’s what I do. It’s what I used to love.”
Joe frowned. “Used to?”
“Nashville took a lot out of me, and I don’t want them to get away with that. They wrecked my confidence and my songwriting. I’ll be damned if I’ll let them wreck this too. There’s no way they get to tell me I shouldn’t go on stage. That I’m not good enough to be up there.” And I’ll try not to let myself believe they’re right.
Joe placed his hand over hers. “Even if it wears you out?”
She nodded. “Even then. They don’t get to win this one.”
He watched her for a moment, then sighed. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. I don’t pretend to understand why you feel the way you do—why you still need to be convinced you’re good when any fool can tell you’re a hell of a singer. But I’ll help you if I can. And I’ll try to keep you happy—to keep us both happy. That may be the best I can do.”
She swallowed hard, feeling the warm weight of his hand against her own. “That’s a lot, actually. More than anybody else has done for a while.” She glanced up at him, his dark blue eyes, almost black in the dim light of the kitchen, the line of his dark beard and moustache against his olive skin. Suddenly, she felt a longing in her gut that was almost painful. “Maybe I should change out of these clothes. They’re sort of my stage outfit.”
He leaned back a little, his lips moving into a faint smile. “I like it. It’s like you’re playing dress-up. Makes me wonder how you’d look in a sexy French maid costume.”
She felt the heat spread from her cheeks downward. “Well, that picture’s going to stay with me from now on whenever I put these clothes on.”
“Glad to oblige.” His grin was more pronounced. “Of course, we could just get you out of those clothes altogether. That might solve the problem.”
“It might at that.” She found herself grinning too. “I’ve got matching underwear.”
His eyes were suddenly darker. “Is that a fact?”
“It is. Want to know the color?”
He shook his head. “Don’t tell me. That’s something I want to find out for myself.”
“That can be arranged.” All of a sudden, she felt a little dizzy. The evening had been sort of like a roller coaster ride, and she’d had a couple of beers since she’d gotten to Joe’s.
He was watching her now, frowning slightly. “You okay there, Red?”
She managed to nod. “I think it’s all catching up with me, sort of.”
“You want to get some sleep?” She had a feeling he was working very hard to keep his voice neutral.
“I want to go to bed. After that it’s all negotiable.”
He watched her for a moment longer, then pushed himself to his feet, extending his hand. “Okay, then. Let’s go check out that underwear.”
Joe lay on his back staring at the ceiling, telling himself to go to sleep. He didn’t have to get up tomorrow. Darcy was running the brunch, and he could spend Sunday morning in bed if he wanted to. He glanced at MG, curled tight against him, her head tucked against his shoulder. He could feel the slight puff of her breath on his collarbone and the tickle of her hair beneath his chin. Spending the morning in bed suddenly seemed like a terrific idea. All in all, he felt almost dangerously content.
He was still processing all the things she’d told him, although he didn’t feel as confused as he had earlier. He’d like to know what the hell Darcy had been up to when she’d sent him to find MG in Oltdorf, though. Maybe he’d drop in on brunch after all.
MG stirred in his arms, moving back to look up at him. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing much. One question, though. What’s your name?”
She frowned. “Same as it was before. I’m MG Carmody.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Only cars are named MG. What’s your real name?”
For a moment, she looked like a sulky seven-year-old, her face scrunched into a scowl. “You can’t laugh.”
“I’ll do my best. What are you—Mariah Grimsby or something?”
“Mary Grace,” she said flatly. “Mary Grace Carmody.”
He blinked. “And you’re upset about that?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Well, to begin with it sounds like the name of a sixty-year-old nun.” She sighed. “Probably from County Clare.”
“Trust me, honey, nobody’s going to mistake you for a sixty-year-old nun. Although the County Clare part could fit.” He ran his fingers along her cheek, tracing the high bone. “What else you got?”
She blew out a breath. “The problem is the Grace part. My mom’s the most practical person I know, and a harder worker you’ll never find. Why the hell she saw fit to stick me with Grace, I’ll never understand.”
He let his finger tips trail down the si
de of her throat. “What’s wrong with Grace? I like it.”
“It’s everything I’m not. Calm. Steadfast. Slow to anger. You name a virtue I lack and it’ll be one Grace should have. Including being able to move around without tripping over my own feet. It’s like naming your kid Chastity or Excellence or something.” She turned her head slightly, brushing her lips against his palm. “And no, I’m not fishing for compliments and I don’t need to be reassured about my general wonderfulness. It’s just that the good things about me aren’t things a Grace would have.”
“Don’t tell me I can’t reassure you about your wonderfulness if I want to,” he murmured, sliding his lips along the line his fingers had followed. “Besides there’s all kinds of grace in this world, darlin’.”
“Such as?” She sounded a little breathless. A very good sign.
“Well, I figure you’re thinking about something like a ballet dancer—you know, professional grace. Or some model, assuming she doesn’t fall ass over teakettle with those skyscraper heels they wear.” He nuzzled the soft spot beneath her ear.
“Something like that.” Definitely breathless now.
“Well, that’s one kind of grace, but when I watch you dodge around the kitchen with a hotel pan full of chopped onions, making sure you don’t run into Leo’s ass, that’s grace too.”
She gave him a slightly sour look. “It’s more self-preservation. Running into Leo’s ass involves the possibility of hot grease.”
“Granted. But there’s nothing wrong with self-preservation, far as I can see. Hell, darlin’, there are times when just looking at you in that kitchen can make a difference in my day. Like sanity in the midst of kitchen chaos. That’s grace. Believe me, that’s real grace.”
She lay very still beneath his fingers. “Gosh,” she whispered.
He turned to look down at her, meeting that dark green gaze. “And what I saw on stage at Oltdorf tonight, that’s another kind of grace. Grace in abundance that was.”
For a moment, she stared up at him. And then she cupped his face in her hands, pulling his mouth down to hers almost urgently. Her tongue danced along his quickly, and he plunged deeper, grasping her shoulders to hold her still.
