by Fran Baker
A tear fell onto Cassie's cheek. She wanted to comfort him somehow, but her vocal cords were frozen.
“I quit cold turkey. It was hell seven times over, but I've never regretted it. I found out the hard way that music is the only thing I can count on, the only good thing that ever happened to me.” He shrugged. “I also found out that my friends were few and far between when I wasn't passing out the pills anymore. I've been clean for five years and it feels better every day.”
“I never would have guessed,” she murmured. It was a rude awakening to reality, but Cassie was grateful to Scrappy for sharing his very personal tale of horror. “Thank you— I really mean that.” She reached over and squeezed his callused hand.
“I'm sorry if I've upset you by sounding like a radical. But that whole scene scares the hell out of me.” Scrappy made himself comfortable in his bunk.
“I'm not upset— really, I'm not,” she hastened to assure him. “If you want to know the truth, I'm proud that you trusted me enough to tell me the story. It's sure convinced me.” She shuddered.
Cassie yawned but she wasn't ready yet to end their conversation. Scrappy's loud snores, though, foiled her attempts to prolong their discussion and she rolled over in her bunk.
As she began to doze off, Cassie thought back on the past few months. They'd gone by in a kind of whirl. She'd lived out of her suitcase and spent most of her time on the old bus or in dim, smoky lounges. Strange faces, long hours performing and rehearsing, lonely motel rooms— Cassie felt that her humdrum life in Coyote Bend was light-years away.
She was jostled awake when their bus pulled off the traffic-clogged interstate and wheezed into a parking lot. She stretched and gazed out the window. The truck stop looked decent enough, but it still resembled a hundred others. As she stepped off the bus, Cassie noticed a flaming redhead in a tightly skirted uniform walking into the cafe. Something stirred in Cassie's memory...
“Of course!” she exclaimed. “It's Ruthie!” Cassie's mind went back to that hot, dusty afternoon when she had just begun her odyssey. Low on money, driving a rattletrap car, she had stopped at Bad Boy's for lunch. Ruthie had made sure that Cassie's stomach was filled almost beyond its capacity. In between waiting on tables and flirting with truckers, Ruthie had also shared her old dream of becoming a singer.
“As I recall, the red beans and gravy are tops here.” Cassie smiled at Ruthie when the saucy woman swished over to take their orders.
“I thought you looked familiar, honey.” Ruthie cocked her head to one side. “Let's see now. It's been a while, but... ”
“We talked about singing,” Cassie prompted.
Ruthie stared at the brightly painted bus outside the window. Her eyes traveled over Cassie's companions and stopped at the sheet music Scrappy held. “You're really going for it, aren't you, gal?”
Cassie grinned proudly. “We're doing our best. I'm Cassie Creighton, just in case you forgot. And this is my band, the Twisters— Scrappy, Mike, and Jess.” Cassie introduced them individually.
“Good for you!” Ruthie stamped her foot. “I'm so happy for you that I could just bust my buttons.”
Ruthie took their orders and rushed to the kitchen. She returned quickly with their food. While they ate, she disappeared through some swinging doors at the side of the restaurant. When she rushed back to their table in less than five minutes, she was beaming like the cat that swallowed the canary.
“Guess what!” Ruthie exclaimed. “I've got a great proposition for you. Do you see those saloon doors over there? Well, my boss says you can work out in the lounge for a while. We haven't had live music since I can't remember, and I'm dying to see you strut your stuff. How does it grab you?”
Cassie and the guys exchanged glances. Jess shrugged and Scrappy said, “Why not?”
“There's one condition, though, Ruthie.” Cassie smiled. “We've been working our tails off and I'm about due for some time off. I'll do the backup, but you'll have to sing lead.”
It had to be one of the few limes in her life when Ruthie was at a loss for words. Her eyes sparkled with suspicious-looking moisture. “Honey, the only singing I've done for years has been on Sunday mornings. And even then, it's only when Saturday night has been tame enough to start me worrying.” She patted her hair and winked. Same old Ruthie. “You don't know what you're asking of me!”
“It's all up to you.” Cassie shrugged. “It's you and me or nothing at all.” She watched Ruthie weighing the idea. “You'll have a ball,” she cajoled.
The sun began to rise in Ruthie's face. “You're on.”
After dinner, the band improvised a version of their concert setup on the small lounge stage. Cassie was testing the mike when Ruthie pranced into the room, a honky-tonk vision in a black satin suit that dripped white fringe.
“I've been saving this old thing for years,” she explained, grinning from ear to ear. “And I found my camera, too. Gonna get me a picture of the two of us together if it kills me.” She pulled the camera out of its case and set it on the table.
Cassie and the band broke up. “What do you want to sing?” she asked between helpless peals of laughter.
“Well, I know every Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn song by heart,” Ruthie declared. She showed no sign of the stage fright that Cassie still experienced from time to time.
“Ruthie, where did all these people come from?” Cassie gestured at the full tables and the line at the bar. “It's nearly ten o'clock at night. Surely you aren't this busy all the time, are you?”
“Well, you know me and CB radios,” Ruthie confessed. “My boss don't know it yet, but there's a rumor going out over the airwaves that drinks are two for the price of one, tonight only.” She smiled slyly. Her eyes were shining like the prairie moon.
Cassie was truly surprised when Ruthie opened with the first Loretta Lynn hit. The waitress's voice was clear and vibrant, and the audience responded with hearty applause when she finished the number. In fact, the whole set was such a rousing success that Cassie decided to urge Ruthie to head for Nashville herself.
“You're too much!” Cassie slid into a booth and sipped a tall, cool one. “Really, Ruthie, you ought to give the business a shot. You've got a wonderful voice!”
“Oh, I don't have that drive anymore, honey.” Ruthie had a dreamy look in her eyes. “Other things are more important to me now.”
As she spoke, a tall, bearded trucker approached their table. “Road Runner!” Ruthie waved him over. “I figured you'd be halfway to the state line by now!”
“You don't think that I'd miss the biggest night in my little lady's life, do you?” He kissed Ruthie's upturned lips. “Babe, you were something else.”
Ruthie squeezed Road Runner's hand and he joined them in the booth. “My priorities have changed a heap since the last time I saw you, Cassie.” Contentment registered in her dewy green eyes. “You know as well as I do that only a few of the best singers ever make it to the big time. And then it's usually at the expense of their personal lives. I don't want to sacrifice everything that's important to me just so I can spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder.”
“I can't build her a mansion or promise that she's going to live on easy street, but I can love her.” Road Runner hugged his lady. “And that's worth more than all the gold in Fort Knox.”
As Cassie watched the lovers exchange endearments, she felt a sharp pang of nostalgia. She had wanted the freedom to make her own decisions, so she had no one to blame for this empty ache but herself. Ruthie might not have Cassie's financial potential, but she seemed perfectly content to live on the poor side of town as long as she could do her loving there, too.
Scrappy hustled over to the table, smiling like a fool. “I just called Bo to tell him that we're on our way back to Nashville.” His eyes glistened with excitement “Cassie, our song is number one and starting to cross over. We did it! We're on top!” He pulled her out of the booth and danced her around the lounge. “Can you believe it? We're on to
p! Girl, this is the best thing that ever happened to me!”
Cassie smiled but her heart wasn't in it. Everything she had ever heard about the loneliness at the top was painfully true.
Chapter 14
“I've been home only two weeks out of the entire summer, Bo. It's too soon for another tour.” Cassie turned and watched in the bevel-edged mirror while the seamstress pinned the hem into the pale mauve silk dress that she'd wear when she flew to California to tape an appearance on Barbara Mandrell's weekly show.
“Besides, I'm exhausted. I hit twelve cities in two weeks last month.” Her protests fell on deaf ears; she knew that before she began. “When am I supposed to find time to finish decorating my house, pray tell?” she asked.
Cassie waved her arms at the bay windows draped with sheets and the empty spaces that she hoped her bedroom furniture would occupy in the near future. Hoyt had insisted that she purchase this mansion on the outskirts of Nashville for investment purposes. The furniture had been on order for two months now, but she hadn't been home long enough or had the time for it to be delivered and arranged.
“We've got to strike while the iron is hot, Cassie.” Bo leaned back on two legs of the kitchen chair that he'd dragged into the bedroom so he could watch the costume fitting. “I figure by the time your segment of Barbara's show is aired, your third song will be climbing the charts. The article that Billboard ran on you last month is just the tip of the publicity iceberg. Now Country Style wants to get a photo layout of your home— you know, the ‘rising young star’ bit.”
“How about exhausted young star?” she asked dryly.
Bo pulled a leather pouch out of his shirt pocket and rolled thin white paper around the loose Bull Durham crumbs that he shook out. When he'd tamped down the tobacco with an expert forefinger, he sealed the cigarette and lit it.
“Don't drop ashes,” Cassie admonished. “With the schedule you've arranged for me, this new carpet may be the only tangible evidence that I'll ever have that I own a home.”
The aromatic smoke smell wafted into her large dressing room. She selected a black, butcher-linen sundress embroidered with multicolored flowers and open-toed sandals from her overflowing walk-in closet.
“When am I supposed to leave for L.A.?” The prospect of crisscrossing the West Coast in a short span of time didn't appeal to her. But she knew how important the exposure was for an artist who was plugging a recent release, and she knew she was going, anyway, whether she liked it or not. Cassie parted her hair and pinned it with the hand-painted butterfly clips that a fan had sent her last week. She didn't need stage makeup for tonight, so she applied only a light coating of the basics.
“You fly out the morning of the tenth, rehearse for two days, and tape the show on the thirteenth.” Bo looked up and nodded his approval when she joined him. “You've come a long way from those ‘farm girl makes good in blue jeans’ days,” he commented.
Underneath his “Aw, shucks!” southern drawl and devil-may-care physical appearance, Bo was a shrewd producer who had negotiated her fees with lightning-quick savvy. The number of requests for bookings into his studio had tripled since Cassie's success, but he was never too busy for his bread-and-butter client.
“You're invited to appear on the ‘Tonight’ show while you're out west. The weekend after that, you're scheduled for the rodeo in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Then there's a three-nighter in Denver.” He trailed after Cassie through the long hallway, reading from the pocket calendar where he kept track of her gigs.
“Keep me in suspense about the rest of it,” she groaned. It made her tired just to think about the hectic pace coming up soon.
“Get out of that potato salad!” Cassie caught Scrappy red-handed. She snatched the bowl away from him and slammed the refrigerator door forcefully. “We have to sing for our supper tonight, remember?” She wrapped foil over the dish that she'd prepared for the celebrity basket-dinner-auction being held to raise money for charity.
“You're just a jackpot of talent, you know that?” Scrappy was trying to get back on her good side with the compliment. He practically drooled as he ogled the hamper that she was packing with crispy fried chicken, the potato salad, and a two-layered devil's food cake that she'd baked and frosted with fudge that morning. “I've got a half-dozen invitations to eat elsewhere,” he added. “But that looks too good to pass up.”
“Is Rose going with us?” Cassie arranged the plates, napkins, and utensils, slapped Scrappy's wandering fingers so she wouldn't close them in the lid, and tied a big red bow on the wicker handle.
“We're supposed to pick her up at the restaurant.” Scrappy shuffled his feet, anxious to get going. “Her mother is sending some of that good corn relish and a couple of loaves of homemade bread for us to include in the basket.”
“I know who's going to be the highest bidder on this dinner.” Cassie laughed as she locked the front door. “The only thing I'm wondering is which you love best: Rose, or her mother's home cooking.”
“A little bit of both,” he quipped.
Cassie knew in her heart that it was only a matter of time before her backup buddy announced his retirement from the road and settled down with the shy young waitress. Rose's quiet, steady love had worked miracles on the talented, rough-and-tumble musician. Scrappy hadn't yet fully realized that he'd grown weary of the driving-playing-sleeping routine, but Cassie counted every precious day, preparing herself for the inevitable parting of paths.
* * * *
“Let's try it this way, fellows.” Cassie had spent endless hours mentally arranging the furniture during her western tour, daydreaming in between the time spent meeting celebrities and working to plug her new song.
“One on each side of the fireplace.” She directed the barrel-chested deliverymen, who placed the brown velvet sofas on the doeskin carpet
“And these go here.” She indicated the spaces that she'd reserved for the matching club chairs. The solid walnut cocktail table was a serenely simple focal point for the conversational area that she'd planned.
Antique satin draperies reflected the mellow monochromatic warmth of the decorating scheme. Cassie intended to spice it all up with some of the many treasures that she'd been sent by fans, distributors, and promoters who'd heard her joking remarks on the “Tonight” show about needing more time to shop for the final touches that would turn her house into a home.
“I've sent out more thank-you notes than a bride.” She smiled, talking to herself as she smoothed the coral comforter over the oak four-poster bed.
From the amber tones of her elegant bedroom to the porcelain and stainless-steel gleam of her country kitchen, Cassie's home was that rare combination of comfort and beauty. Every stick of furniture was the finest money could buy. From the generous deluge of gifts that she had received, she'd arranged lovely displays on the china cabinet shelves. Plump pillows and soft afghans proved her fans were loyal; and expensive paintings of the Old West said that the music industry wished her continued success.
Why, then, was she unable to relax and enjoy the fruits of her labor? And why had she let Hoyt slip out of her life again without demanding a showdown? Cassie knew the answers, but she hated facing the facts. She still wasn't good enough for him. All her money, all her hard work— they were vain efforts on her part to capture his heart. She wandered the back roads of her memories, painfully aware that she'd been too blind to see that she'd chosen the wrong road home.
* * * *
“I want out of my contract, Hoyt. As soon as our lawyers can get together to work out the financial details, I'll buy it back from you. Just name your price.” Cassie's face felt as though it were carved from granite. She couldn't meet the intense look in his eyes. Let him attribute this sudden demand to artistic temperament or any one of a hundred other reasons. She wouldn't have him anymore, but she would have her pride.
“We'll talk about that after you've released the album.” His voice was low. A vibrant energy communicated itself to her. He'd fl
own in from Dallas that morning on his private jet and they were dining out together to discuss the details of the concept album that Bo wanted her to write and record.
“No,” she said. “I want to settle it now.”
He'd been in and out of her life as if the entrance to it were nothing but a revolving door. His fire-and-ice influence over every facet of her personal and professional affairs was infuriating. She was tempted to fling her salad in his face and walk out of the restaurant. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and confronted him.
“I want to make my own career decisions from now on.” She kept her tone casual so that he wouldn't guess how deeply wounded she was by his indifference. “We have different goals, Hoyt— we always have had. Your only interest in life is to control as much money and land, to own as many people, as you can.”
Her lips were dry and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. “I used to believe that money was the most important thing in the world. My fantasy was to rake in the bucks, big bucks. I thought it would make me a better person, that it would make you sit up and really see me for the woman I am.” She smiled ruefully. “It didn't work. As far as you're concerned, I'm just another corporate asset.” She was stiff with remorse. “I want out as soon as possible. I'm willing to meet your price.”
“No court in this land would uphold your jumping ship at this point.” Hoyt's blue eyes bored through her like a diamond-point drill. “I bankrolled an unknown singer who wandered out of west Texas without the foggiest notion of how to get started in the music business. Now that she's got a little success under her belt, she wants to show her appreciation by sticking a knife in my ribs.”
Cassie noticed that he didn't bother to deny that his interest in her was a purely financial one. She wouldn't let herself dwell on that now.
“You're as mistaken about that as you have been about a lot of things.” She spoke calmly. It was good that they were having it out in public like this. Hoyt wouldn't have a chance to work his private magic in an attempt to dissuade her.
