Nashville Dreams

by Rachel Hauck

  “You’ll find your niche as you polish your genius.”

  “You’re not going to let me forget he said ‘genius,’ are you?”

  “Nope.” She shakes her hips as she passes me with the plate of burgers. “But whatever you do, girl, be true to you. What you need to learn from this week is that this town doesn’t need any more posers or wannabes. We need true-blue, hard-working songwriters.”

  “True blue, right.” I carry out the mustard, onions, and tomatoes. “Enough about me. How are things between you and Walt?”

  Birdie’s cheeks redden. “Wonderful. We’re going to dinner tomorrow night.”

  I sing softly. “Walt and Birdie sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”

  She sings along with a pretty high harmony.

  17

  I wake a few roosters on my way to Nashville Noise at four forty-five in the morning. Marty meets me in the reception area with coffee and crullers from the Donut Den.

  “You’re not going to believe Mr. Chastain’s office. He has his own personal hall of fame.”

  “I bet.” I sip my coffee and munch on my cruller as I follow Marty to the icon’s office. The walls are covered with photos, plaques, awards, and platinum albums. I turn in a slow circle. “Holy schamoly.”

  Marty strolls along the far wall. “If you’re the great James Chastain, I suppose everyone wants to know you.” She stops to examine one of the pictures. “Who’d you listen to growing up, Robin?”

  “Everyone, everything. Granddaddy Lukeman loved all kinds of music. Gospel, contemporary Christian, country, bluegrass, even classical. He talked to me about singer-songwriters Bill Anderson, Jimmy Web, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn. Then I found Wayne Kirkpatrick, James Dean Hicks, Victoria Shaw, Diane Warren, and, believe it or not, Avril Lavigne.”

  I follow Marty down the row of pictures. “Anyway, I read an interview with Anthony Smith, and he said, ‘I just pray for God to help me be creative,’ and I thought, ‘Dang, he’s right. Can’t go wrong praying.’”

  Marty glances back at me for a second, then moves on, looking at pictures. “I tried to make Delaney Brown something like Heart meets Trisha Yearwood with a dash of Pasty Cline.” Marty waves me over. “Look, a young James Chastain.”

  I look over her shoulder. “He has a nice face.” I munch the last of my cruller and check the time. “We’d better get to work. Marc would have a heart attack if he caught us dillydallying in Mr. Chastain’s office.” I head for the door. “Heart meets Trisha and Patsy, huh? I think it worked.”

  “Yeah, guess so.” Marty’s shoulders droop and she motions to the faces on the wall with her coffee cup. “Maybe it could’ve been me.”

  I plop my arm on her shoulders. “It still can be you. Get back in the game. Start writing. Go with me to open-mike nights. I could use a buddy.”

  She shakes her head with a feeble smile. “The passion is gone. I listen to you talk about workshops, spending nights running around town for songwriter nights, trying to meet people so you can set up cowrites, and it gives me one gargantuan headache. All I can think is, I’m glad it’s not me.” She heads out of the office.

  I follow her. “But you don’t have to start at the bottom like me. You know folks in the business.”

  “My stardom ship has sailed, and I fell off the face of the musical earth.”

  The sad resolve in Marty’s voice reminds me of Momma, even Birdie, a little. Women on the verge of achieving their dream only to have life wake them up right before the really good part. I want to succeed. For them.

  Marty picks up her cleaning gear. “I’ll start with the bathrooms, you take the offices.”

  “Right behind you.” I pause to pull my notebook and pen from my hip pocket.

  Sad understanding that dreams fade away,

  And tomorrow never comes.

  She caught a ride on the Ferris wheel,

  For the thrill of going ’round.

  But found herself still sitting there,

  With her feet stuck on the ground.

  Nashville Noise has a lot of offices, plus writing rooms and several recording studios. I methodically clean the first floor, humming to myself, dumping trash, vacuuming dirt. Wheeling my little cleaning cart down the hall, I get to the first recording studio. On the other side of the door, I hear muffled voices, followed by footsteps. Then, the click of a door. The voices fade.

  I glance to my right down the long hall. Then my left. No one’s coming. I drop the vacuum pack and steal inside the studio.

  The room is large and square, low lit and painted with warm colors. I close my eyes and breathe in the music.

  To my right are two chairs on either side of a large mike. Plus two guitars. One acoustic, the other electric. And to my left is the glass-encased, unmanned control room. I tiptoe over to the chair by the acoustic.

  I read somewhere, maybe from Music Row magazine, that Nashville Noise is doing more acoustic recordings. Going back to the style of legendary RCA Studio B where greats like Jim Reeves and Eddy Arnold recorded.

  I pick up the guitar, a sleek Ovation, and drop the strap over my head. One day, an artist will come in here and lay down tracks to one of my songs. Oh, Lord, please. I don’t have a backup plan. If I can’t sell songs, I’ll be cleaning toilets the rest of my life. Or maybe follow Skyler’s lead and study law. I shudder at the sobering realization.

  It’s songwriting or bust.

  I peek over my shoulder at the control room where the computer and console lights reflect in the glass. Still empty. Just to be safe, better make sure the coast is clear. Marc said to keep a sharp eye out. I tiptoe over to the door. Marty is coming down the hall.

  “What are you doing?” she whispers as I jerk her inside the studio.

  “Pretending.” I point to the Fender electric. “Strap it on. Let’s play a song.”

  To my surprise, burned-out, I’ve-lost-my-passion Marty does not hesitate. She slings the strap over her shoulder and fastens it to the guitar. “We are so fired.”

  “Shhh, no we’re not. We just can’t get caught.” I pull a pick from my hip pocket and strum. A rich, beautiful G chord sends my heart right over the moon.

  Marty snorts. “You carry a pick in your pocket?”

  “You weren’t at the Bluebird.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. What should we sing?”

  Marty smiles. “One of your songs, of course.”

  I shrug. “I always wanted to hear “Your Country Princess” with an electric. Creep Graham added a sweet lick after the second verse.”

  “Let’s do it. What key?”

  “D.” I play it through once, showing Marty her part, a tad nervous the recording studio police are going to bust us. But after a few seconds in this danger zone, I settle down. Fear does not define me. Really.

  Marty is a skilled musician. She blows me away.

  “Let’s do this before we get caught.” She runs her thumbs over her fingertips. “I have absolutely no calluses.”

  “Then just come in on the chorus.” I ahem a few times to clear my throat and step up to the mike. The coffee I had a few hours ago didn’t prime my vocal pump, but I can muddle through. “This song is for . . .” I grin at Marty. “Marc Lewis.”

  She muffles a chuckle with her pinched lips.

  I sing the first verse of “Your Country Princess” with every ounce of my heart and soul, throwing in a few extra guitar riffs for good measure.

  Marty cranks it up for the chorus with beautiful lead accents. When I sing the chorus a second time, she comes in with a strong Jennifer Nettles-like voice.

  We end the song with a flourish. “Ooooooo . . . Let. Me. Be. Your. Countryyyyyyy. Prince-esss.” The electric whines out the last note.

  Thump!

  Marty and I freeze. “Did you hear something?” she whispers.

  Squeak.

  “Crap, we’re dead.” Trembling, I return the Ovation to the guitar stand and scurry out the door with Marty on my heels, sh
oving me down the hall. We skid around the corner and bust into the ladies’ room.

  “Do you think Marc is checking up on us?” Marty pokes her head out the door to see if anyone followed us.

  At the sink, I splash cold water on my face. “What were we thinking?” My hands shake so bad that I can’t grip the paper towels.

  Marty laughs. “We, nothing. You. By the way, great song.”

  I pat my face with a ripped towel. “Really? Graham called it sophomoric.”

  “Oh brother, don’t listen to him. He’s—”

  Clank!

  We shush. “I’m getting out of here,” Marty whispers. She cracks the door and recons the hall. “The coast is clear.”

  Marty dashes left, and I dash right, winding my way back to the studio where, unfortunately, I left my cleaning cart. Returning to the scene of the crime can’t be wise. But I find the studio is still abandoned. Shew.

  Must have been the pipes. Old buildings have a song of their own. I start to wheel away, then stop, back up, crack the door, and slither my hand inside and grab the trash.

  After I finish at Nashville Noise and run a few errands, I call Skyler for an early lunch.

  “Meet me at Bread & Company.”

  “Good idea.”

  The restaurant is packed. I maneuver my way through the crowd, secretly scanning for famous faces. A trick I learned from Blaire. And Birdie said important people come here. But after a few minutes, I feel sorta stupid. Unless a major artist walks through those doors, I wouldn’t recognize a Music Row powerhouse if my life depended on it.

  Skyler calls. “I’m running late. Order me a turkey on whole grain, no mayo, and a large Diet Coke. I’m dying for something fizzy to drink. ”

  I pull a ten-dollar bill from my pocket. “Turkey, no mayo.” She keeps forgetting Marc doesn’t pay lawyer wages.

  Meanwhile, I can’t figure out which Pay Here register also takes orders, so I shift lines one too many times, and after ten minutes, I’m still at the end.

  “You have to pick a line and commit.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” I glance around. “Oh my gosh, you’re him.”

  He smiles, and the fingers of my soul pluck my heart strings. “I am.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on tour?” The line can move all it wants. I’m not moving unless he does. What a great face.

  “I’m home for a few days.”

  Remembering my Billy Currington bungle, I gather my few wits, pretend I’m cool, and stick out my hand. “Robin McAfee. Songwriter.”

  He laughs low. “Keith Urban. Songwriter too. Nice to meet you.”

  We meander through the line, chatting about the biz. Keith is personable with an air of humility, as if he understands fame is fleeting but character endures. “Keep writing,” he tells me. “You’ll find your place.” His order is to go, so when they hand him a package, he heads toward the door.

  “Can I ask a small, itty-bitty favor?” My insides shimmy. This is ridiculous, but the words are out there.

  He grins and yanks a napkin from the dispenser. “It’s not illegal, is it?”

  I grin. “No, it’s not illegal. My sister is a huge fan. She said to hug you if I ever . . . you know . . . ran . . . into . . .” Oh my gosh, this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

  Without a word, or making me feel like a twelve-year-old, Keith embraces me in a light and polite hug. “For your sister,” he says.

  “For Eliza.” I grin, holding it together. Barely. Shaking all over. Maybe he doesn’t totally believe it’s for my sister, but who cares? I just got hugged by Keith Urban! Man, I love this town.

  By the time Skyler shows up, Keith is long gone, and I’ve eaten half her turkey on whole grain, no mayo.

  She sits at my table with a huff. “Can any man talk more than my boss? I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “No worries, mate,” I say in my best Aussie accent. “Keith and I chatted.”

  She makes a face as she drops her purse on the spare chair. “Keith who? Did you eat half my sandwich?”

  “Yes, I only had enough money for one sandwich and a drink. You forget I’m not made of money. Urban.”

  “I’ll pay you back—” She stops, and her eyes bug out. “You talked with Keith Urban? He was here? Oh my gosh.” She whips her head around, looking.

  “Save yourself the whiplash. He’s gone.”

  “Oh my gosh . . . You’re lying. No, you’re not lying. You talked with Keith Urban?” Skyler picks up the other half of the sandwich. “I’m gonna kill my boss.”

  I grin. “He hugged me too.”

  She slaps the table. “He did not.”

  “He did. For Eliza, you know.”

  Skyler laughs, then pounds the table. “You have the best luck. First Billy, then Keith. You’ve got to e-mail Eliza today. She’ll die.”

  Since I’d planned to write at NSAI in the afternoon anyway, It’s no bother to take a few minutes to e-mail my sister.

  Cambridge,

  Three words for you. Hugged. Keith. Urban.

  NashVegas

  I run into Graham at The Frothy Monkey on the Wednesday before the Fourth of July. I’d finished cleaning the Pagadigm Group offices, picked up my paycheck from Marc, and decided to treat myself to an iced mocha.

  “Graham.” I tip up my nose.

  “Short stuff.” He gazes down at me as he steps up to order. “Large black coffee.”

  I squint at the menu on the wall. “Do they even sell black coffee?”

  Graham laughs, fishing a fistful of coins from his pocket. “You still mad at me?”

  “Should I be?” The girl hands over my iced mocha.

  “No. It was business, Robin.”

  “Then your business isn’t very nice.”

  Graham laughs and winks at the girl as if they know something I don’t. “Have to work deals, girl, or your career goes nowhere.”

  “Does that include dissing your friends?”

  He looks away. “Like I said, it was business, Robin. Just business.”

  We walk outside and chat for a few minutes on the deck. He must have looked at his watch ten times in ten minutes.

  “You in a rush, dude?”

  “Well, I do need to get going.” He steps down to the sidewalk. “I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll hold my breath.”

  18

  Momma calls around dinnertime. “Are you coming this weekend?”

  “I might.”

  “Jeeter’s going around telling folks you’re singing in the Fourth Fest, to which I say, ‘Don’t count on it, Jeeter.’ So Daddy insisted I give you a call.”

  “Your support overwhelms me, Momma.”

  She huffs. “Sorry, Robin, but I’ve been around this mountain too many times.”

  She’s thrown down the gauntlet. “I’m coming and—” here goes nothing “—I’m singing.”

  “You say that now. But wait ’til Jeeter calls your name.”

  I see all the years of false starts have messed with her confidence as much as my own. I pick up the gauntlet. “Momma, I’ll sing. I promise.”

  “Are you telling me you’re over your stage fright?”

  I sigh. “I’m still terrified, but I’m learning to let God’s love be my strength and song.”

  “Guess I’ll stop contradicting Jeeter.” The pitch in her tone tells me she’s still a doubter.

  We say good-bye, and I toss the phone on the coffee table. Guess I’d better pack and let Birdie know I’ll be gone. It occurs to me I could use some Nashville courage in Freedom, especially if I’m singing in the Fourth Fest. Especially if Ricky is going to be around.

  I dial Skyler. “Want to go see Grandpa and Grandma McAfee this weekend?”

  She hesitates. “Normally, yes.”

  “But . . .” I collapse over the arm of the couch.

  “I have a date.” The business quality of her voice drifts into a goofy lilt.

  “With who?”

  “A guy I met at you
r last open-mike night. He said he liked your voice. I said I was your cousin. He asked for my number, and now we’re going out.”

  “He likes my voice and you get the date? How’s that work?” My attempt at indignance fails.

  “Hey, don’t mess with my system. You get the applause, I get the guys.”

  “So, who is the lucky schmo?”

  We talk about Trey Phillips, his kind demeanor and easy smile. Their first date is dinner and a movie.

  Skyler asks for an update on Ricky. “I called him a few days ago just to talk. Told him I wanted to give Nashville a chance.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “‘Do what you gotta do’ and hung up.”

  “Robin, end it with him. It’s not fair to keep his hopes up when you’re not really planning on marrying him. Besides, what if Lee becomes available?”

  “I’m not holding on for Lee. We’re still just waving across the pews.”

  “I haven’t heard any more about Janie and her court case.”

  I stuff one of the throw pillows under my head. “Here’s a bit of good news you’ll like.” I pause for effect. “Graham and I made up. Sorta.”

  “You call that good news?”

  “What’s your problem with him?”

  “I don’t like how he treated you.”

  I flop my arm over my eyes. “He’s just inconsiderate.”

  We argue the point for a second, but I can’t convince her Graham is a good guy underneath his duster of ambition and hat of conceit.

  After talking with Skyler, I call Blaire to see if she wants to go to Freedom, but she reminds me she’s on her way to Hilton Head with her parents.

  Looks like I’m traveling to Freedom alone. I slip off the couch and take my guitar out to the deck. The night is thick and dark. In the distance, the orange hue of downtown lights arch over the city, and firecrackers explode on the next block over. Screams and laughter float over the rooftops and settle on me.

  I love the Fourth of July. In Freedom, half the town gathers at Granddaddy’s the night before, and we sing and play well into the night. Momma bakes a half dozen of her famous Red, White, and Blue cake. Game and food booths line the streets.