Nashville Dreams

by Rachel Hauck

  I cut the engine and take the footpath down to the shore. Ricky’s waded out thigh deep, casting his line.

  “Are they biting?” I wave, smiling as if all is well.

  He reels in his line. “No,” he says, with not so much as a glance over his shoulder or a by-your-leave.

  “You got a second?”

  “Do I look like I got a second?”

  “Yes.” Smart aleck. The gloves are off. No, the gloves are on. Which is it? Gloves off? Gloves on? No matter, the fight is on.

  “Nope, don’t think I do.” Ricky zips the line through the air. The silverfish lure grabs a ray of light just before breaking the water’s surface.

  “I thought the fish weren’t biting.” I slip my hands into my hip pockets and cock my head to one side.

  “They aren’t. Just like my girlfriend.”

  Ah, yes, the gloves are off. “Can we talk about this?”

  Before he can answer, Ricky’s rod bows to the zip of a reeling line. His arm muscles flex as he works to bring his catch in. “Well, looky here, you brought me luck.” But as quickly as it began, it’s over. The tip of the rod whips toward the heavens, and the taut line goes limp. Ricky’s shoulders droop, then he swears.

  “Sorry,” I say, for lack of anything better.

  He wades out of the water and brushes past me. “Must not be my weekend for landing the Big One.”

  Wincing, I realize this conversation is not going to be easy. But, I’m tired of running, tired of choosing the easy road. “Missed you in church yesterday.”

  “Surprised you even noticed.”

  “I noticed.” My eyes follow him as he walks to the back of his truck, tossing his rod into the bed. He steps out of his waders and jerks his T-shirt over his head. I whirl around to face the other way.

  I don’t want to marry Ricky, but mercy me, sometimes he makes me wish I did. Just for a night or two. He’s lean and muscled, like a wrangler. His abs are well defined. The only six pack I’ve ever touched.

  Shirtless, Ricky slips up behind me, brushing my hair away from my neck, sending chills down my spine. “Marry me, Robin. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “I’m moving to Nashville.” The confession sounds soft and weak, but the words sink down and grab hold.

  “Nashville?” He turns my shoulders to face him. “Since when? To do what?” A red tint outlines his narrowed eyes.

  “Be a songwriter.”

  “Be a songwriter?” At that he backs away from me and hooks his arms over the bed of his truck, crossing his legs at the ankles. He stares at me like I’m a cyclops—or worse, Millie Miner the day she wore so much makeup for our senior picture it looked like we actually had a class clown.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Hands on my hips, I pretend to be brave, pretend this is the best idea since the Colonel invented Kentucky Fried Chicken.

  “Because I’m wondering if you’ve lost your mind. Do you even know what it takes to make it as a songwriter?”

  “Yes, well, a little.”

  “You’re going to get lost in the sea of wanna-be Nashville songwriters. For every one that makes it, there’s a million more trying.”

  “I’m not one in a million?”

  He points his finger at me and laughs low. “Ah, clever girl. I’m not falling for that one-in-a-million bait. I’ll live to regret it.”

  “Clever boy.” As I’m talking, I retrieve my little black notebook and a pen from my hip pocket.

  “Look, baby, all I’m saying . . . What are you doing?”

  “Just jotting some thoughts.”

  “We’re in the middle of a discussion.”

  “Hold on a sec.” I scribble one-in-a-million, clever girl, clever boy.

  “Robin—” He reaches for my arm, knocking my book and pen to the ground.

  “Ricky!” I jerk away, stooping to pick them up. “Thin ice, bud. Very thin.”

  “You weren’t listening.” He stares at me for a second. “Until Friday night, the only singing you ever did was on your grandpa’s porch. Songwriting is a long shot.”

  “Oh my stars, you sound like Momma.” I tuck my notebook and pen in my hip pocket.

  Ricky gently tugs me close. The scent of stale cologne mingled with sweat and river water stings my nose. He brushes my lips with the tip of his thumb, then lowers his lips to mine. “Let’s get married, make a few babies.”

  His words electrify the hairs on the back of my neck. “You just want to have sex.”

  His grin is impish. “Do you blame me? Look at you. Cuddlier than a passel of pups and sexier than Shania.”

  “Shania? You’re crazy.”

  “Ask any man in Freedom, Robin.”

  “What? You’ve talked to other men about me?” My entire body burns with embarrassment.

  “No, but get your head out of the sand, Robin. Men know what other men are thinking.”

  I narrow my eyes and make a fist. “Look, I’m not marrying you just so you can sleep with me. Shoot, Ricky, what kind of woman would I be?”

  “Very happy.” He snickers.

  My protesting fades with a laugh. “You’re sure of yourself.”

  “I love you. I want to marry you. I want to sleep with you under the stars on the bank of the Tennessee River. I want twelve kids that look just like us.”

  “Twelve kids? What’re you thinking?” Sex on a muddy riverbank and having more kids than I got fingers. Ha! “Ricky, it’s taken me a long time to work up the guts to admit my dream, and you’re asking me to cash it in for a roll in the hay.”

  “Not one roll. Many rolls.” He tries to sound sultry, but it’s more like a tacky used-car salesman telling me, “She runs like a top.”

  “Besides,” he continues, “you can write all the songs you want right here in Freedom.”

  “No one in Freedom is going to buy my songs.”

  “Probably no one in Nashville will either.”

  I stare toward the river. I hate that he’s half right. But more, I hate his argument against me.

  “Life’s too short to be chasing rainbows,” he says.

  I bristle back at him. “Life’s too short not to chase a rainbow or two.”

  “Come on, forget about Nashville.” In one deft move, he swings his leg around, knocking my feet out from under me. We tumble to the ground amid the tall grass as I hoot with laughter. I can’t help it. This is the irresistible part of Ricky Holden. The next second we’re rolling around, laughing and giggling, wrestling against each other, each trying to come out on top. Until . . . We slow down. He peers into my eyes.

  “Robin.”

  I peer back. “Ricky.”

  Next thing I know, we’re making out like a couple of junior high kids, slobbering all over each other. See, the boy does things to me.

  But when he grabs for my T-shirt, I shove him off and jump to my feet. “No you don’t, Ricky.”

  He falls over on his back, hand on his chest, breathing deep. The rascal knows he can’t get to second base with me.

  “You’re driving me wild.”

  I tug my shirt straight. “You’re doing it to yourself, dude.”

  He rises up on his elbows. “No, you’re doing it to me.”

  He’s impossible. I start for my truck before he wears me down.

  Just beyond the thicket, dust billows, and car tires crunch against the rocks and dead tree limbs. A car door opens then slams shut.

  “Ricky? Sugar? You here? You left your jacket at my place Saturday night.”

  Through golden ribbons of sunlight, Mary Lu Curtain rounds a clump of blooming honeysuckle.

  Ricky scrambles to his feet. “Mary Lu.” He lets loose with an obviously nervous chuckle. I notice he doesn’t look my way. “How’d you find me?”

  “You said you’d be fishing . . .” She glances at him, then me.

  I motion to Mary Lu. “This is what you had to take care of Saturday night?”

  “Robin, he told me you two broke up. Really.” Ricky’s
leather jacket, the one I bought for him, dangles from Mary Lu’s fingers.

  “Guess we did, Mary Lu.” The hinges of my truck door moan when I jerk it open.

  Mary Lu flicks her wrist. “By the way, you did good the other night, girl. Never knew you could sing.”

  “Shut up, Mary Lu,” Ricky growls.

  I slam my door with a huff and a puff. Keys. Where are my keys? I look in the ignition, patting my pockets. I can’t find my keys.

  Ricky storms over. “Robin, it ain’t what you think.”

  “Oh, really? What do I think?”

  He drops his head against the doorframe. “I was upset—”

  My eyes start to burn. “Ricky, find my keys, please.” It galls me to ask, but I’m not hunting around in the weeds while Mary Lu stands by.

  He sighs and wanders off, leaving me to wait and not cry.

  Then he’s back. “Here.” He dangles my keys in front of my face. “I ran into her at Dottie’s after I left your place.”

  “Dottie’s? What did you have to take care of at Dottie’s on a Saturday night? You’re such a liar, Rick.”

  Cranking the engine, I shift into gear. “You know—” What am I doing? There’s nothing more to say. “See you, Ricky.” I pop the clutch and careen over the meadow toward the highway.

  6

  Tuesday morning, my Willaby’s uniforms aren’t on the floor where I left them, crumpled and wrinkled, so I go searching.

  In the kitchen, Momma’s sitting at the table drinking coffee.

  “Morning, Momma. You’re up early.” I shove open the laundry-room door to find my uniforms washed and pressed, hanging from a dowel rod.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” she says.

  “You didn’t have to wash my uniforms, Momma. I’ve gone to work wrinkled before.”

  She raises her mug to her lips. “So I’ve heard.”

  Good grief. Town gossips at it again. They could drive a mad woman mad. I duck behind the laundry room door and change.

  When I come out, Momma says, “Coffee’s ready if you want.”

  I smile. It’s killing her not to pour me a cup. “Smells good.” Flopping my robe over the back of a chair, I twist my wet hair up with a scrunchy.

  “I can make eggs.” Momma motions to the black iron skillet on the stove top.

  “Thanks, but I’ll grab a donut from the bakery.” I pick a mug from the mug tree and sweeten my Maxwell House with sugar and cream. When I put the cream back in the fridge, an old note stuck to the door with a magnet catches my eye.

  Lose 25 lbs.

  The letters are faded by the years of afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window. I touch it lightly with my fingertips. I wonder if . . .

  Momma breaks into my thoughts. “You can’t move to Nashville, Robin.”

  Here we go. At three-thirty in the morning, no less. “And why not?”

  “Your home is here. Freedom.” She gets up to freshen her coffee, stomping the kitchen chair against the hardwood floor.

  “That’s not a reason.”

  “You’ll get your heart broke.”

  “By who?”

  “Music Row. The business. Do you know how many people move to Nashville to write songs, or to become somebody the good Lord never meant for them to be?”

  “What’d you do? Powwow with Ricky?”

  “And by the way, were you going to tell me you turned down his marriage proposal?”

  I glance out the sink window. Twilight has not yet disturbed the darkness. “Seems the town gossips beat me to it.”

  “You know I volunteer at the library on Mondays.”

  I face her. “Ah, yes, the epicenter of town lore.”

  “How do you think it made me feel to hear the news from Elaine McDougal?”

  “Then stop listening to Elaine McDougal.” I take a sip of coffee, thinking how the spiky aroma will always remind me of this kitchen.

  “Don’t you want to stay here and marry Ricky? Do you know how many girls would love to have what you have?” Forced cheer drives Momma’s words.

  I lift my chin and meet her gaze. “Perhaps songwriting is what the Lord created me to do.”

  She returns to her seat at the table. “I don’t think you have any idea of the Lord’s will for you.”

  Those are bodacious fighting words. “And you do?”

  “I’m a mite older and wiser than you, Robin, so yes, I think I have the Lord’s mind on the matter.”

  I walk over to the fridge and yank off the crusty note. “How long has this been up there?”

  Momma snatches at the edge, tearing the corner. “Don’t be smart.”

  “I’m serious, Momma, how long? Ten years? Twenty?”

  “What’s your point, Robin Rae?” She drops the torn edge onto the table. Her long fingers are brown from working in the spring garden, but her young face is old with worry.

  “Momma.” I kneel beside her. “Maybe some day you’ll tell me the truth about why you’re against me moving to Nashville, but I’m going. Accept it. I don’t want my kids finding a sticky note on the fridge that says ‘Be a songwriter.’”

  Mr. Chancy attempts a cartwheel down the back hall when I give my notice. Seriously, he tries, but he can’t manage to get his feet wheeling in the right direction. I watch him jig and jive toward the swinging doors with my face squished, my shoulders hunched, and my chin tucked to my chest. When he starts clapping and singing, I get a little offended. Was I that bad?

  His final act of celebration is to whip out his tube of Tums and plop it into the trash. Is he serious? I caused all his heartburn? Good gravy. The market value of Tums will plummet today.

  “You still mad at me?” Ricky asks, leaning against the wall, his arms folded.

  “I reckon not.”

  The man is an ornery cuss, but he’s sweet and tender underneath. I do care for him, and there’s no use writing songs about life and how people should give up their grudges if I’m gonna hold on to one.

  He steps toward me with his blue gazed fixed on my face. “The thing with Mary Lu . . . It was nothing, Robin. You have to believe me. Mitch called on my way home, said he and some others were going to Dottie’s for her new dessert special. Somehow we all wound up at Mary Lu’s . . . I was upset . . . She asked about you . . . I said we broke up . . .”

  “Don’t grovel. You’re too good for that. I believe you. This time.”

  He exhales. “So, you’re really leaving?”

  “I’m really leaving.” The confession feels right. Worthy of a true cartwheel.

  Ricky raises his chin. “So, then.”

  “So, then,” I echo, hoping there’s more. Will he finally say he’s happy for me?

  “Better get to work.”

  “Right.”

  Hard to imagine a few days ago we were necking behind the stairs.

  As I walk to my aisle, Martina is belting “Independence Day” over the PA, and my confidence kicks up a little. I’m sure I’m doing the right thing—I think.

  From the end of the upstairs hall, the attic calls me to visit. I stare at the attic door with my hand wrapped around the handle of Daddy’s old leather suitcase.

  Leaving home stirs a longing to roam and reminisce, so I sit the luggage inside my bedroom door and creep across the moaning hardwood floor to the attic door. The attic is not off limits—no room in the McAfee house is off limits—but the attic has always contained secrets. Momma’s. So, I feel a little devious sneaking up the stairs.

  At the top of the steps, the musty fragrance reminds me of rainy Saturday afternoons, playing up here with Eliza and Steve, turning the attic into a wilderness fort or a Star Wars space station.

  Remembering Great-Grandma Lukeman’s authentic Tiffany lamp is in the far corner next to her worn rocker, I fumble in the dark until my fingers touch the lamp’s faded gold chain. With one click, a rosy glow angles across the room.

  The attic is cozy and warm, stuffed to the gills with things Momma calls memories.

>   First, there’s the wall of Momma’s ribbons. Hundreds of them. Each one embossed with a gold-lettered “First Place.” Great day in the morning. Bit McAfee, Queen of Canning. Queen of First Place. She should visit Eliza this summer and stop in on the queen. Jude Perry can write a headline: “Queen of Canning to Visit Queen of England.”

  In the corner opposite of the ribbons is Momma’s cedar chest. I try the lid. Locked. Still locked. Always locked. We used to asked her about it when we were kids—not because we cared, but because she told us, “Never you mind,” gave us cookies, and turned on the TV.

  But today I notice something sticking out from under the chest’s lid. I lightly tug on the corner of a picture and carry it over to the light.

  In faded Kodak color, there’s Momma, her face framed with Farrah Fawcett hair. She’s smiling and her expression is one I’ve never seen before. So carefree.

  There are four others in the picture with Momma. Two men and two women. I study their faces. They’re young, about my age, but captured in time twenty-five years ago. The guys’ long hair flows into their wide, open collars, and one of them sports Elvis-like sideburns. I run my finger over the snapshot’s smooth surface.

  Who are these people, Momma? What are you doing? Why have I never seen this before?

  I flip the photo over to see if Momma wrote anything on the back. She didn’t. At the bottom of the picture, there’s a sign or something. But the image is torn, and I can’t make out the words. I try to match the photo’s tattered edges, but they are too frayed.

  “Robin?” A muffled call floats up the stairs.

  I jerk my head up.

  “Robin, where are you? Eliza’s on the phone.”

  I hurry to the trunk and try to slip the photo in, but it won’t go. Trying a different angle, I only manage to get the picture stuck. Now what? I tug lightly to free the picture, and then rrrrrip.

  Crap. Perfect. Just perfect.

  Another muffled, “Robin Rae! Mercy, did you fall in the toilet? Eliza’s waiting. Long distance still costs money.”

  Leaning against the trunk lid and thumping it with the heel of my hand, I work the stuck half of the picture free and hurry down the attic stairs, hiding the picture in my hip pocket. Surely there’s a place in Nashville that fixes photos. But the original is torn. Forever.