Nashville Dreams

by Rachel Hauck

  Going home will be good. I can redraw my emotional boundaries and shake the lost feeling of being a newcomer to Nashville. My recent journey may not be at all about becoming a published songwriter, but about connecting with the perfect Love that overcomes fear.

  The first breeze of the night ruffles through the maple, and for a long time, I sing and talk to my Father.

  My old truck, Freedom’s Song, whizzes by the town limits around noon. The smell of pine whooshes through the open windows.

  Graham cranes around to read the Let Freedom Sing sign. “I love it,” he says, jutting his elbow out the window. The wind tugs at the brim of his hat.

  I glance over at him. He called last night, to my surprise, just before I crawled into bed. After our Frothy Monkey meeting, I didn’t really believe he’d call anytime soon.

  “Short stuff, what you got going for the Fourth?” he asked.

  “Actually, I’m—”

  “Let’s grill out. Go down to the Cumberland and watch the fireworks. Maybe do some writing. What do you say?”

  “I have plans, Graham.”

  The disappointment in his “Oh” killed me. I suggested he call his other friends, but it didn’t take much hemming-n-hawing before I realized I was his other friend.

  “Why don’t you come down to Freedom with me?” The invitation tumbled out before I could consider all the ramifications. Like . . . Ricky.

  Graham didn’t hesitate. Not one second. “Great,” he said. Something in his voice told me I couldn’t take back my invite, even though he tossed me aside like an old shoe a few weeks ago.

  After we hung up, I clicked off the light and lay on top of the covers for awhile, asking myself, “Can I trust him?”

  In the end, the idea of him sitting home alone, watching NASCAR, eating take-out, convinced me. Besides, I think it’s what Jesus would do.

  “Freedom seems like a nice place to grow up.” Graham breaks into my thoughts.

  “It was . . . is.” I wave at folks coming out of the downtown shops. “Where did you grow up, Graham?”

  “Everywhere. California to Maine. Army brat.”

  Those two words, “Army brat,” paint a whole new picture of my songwriting friend.

  He chuckles. “I made a lot of money moving around.”

  I grin. “Doing what? Singing songs?”

  “No.” He hesitates. “Let’s just say I had the ability to help out in the test-taking department.”

  “Really? What kind of ability?”

  He taps his temple. “God-given.”

  The conversation ends as I turn into my parents’ driveway. Mo and Curly explode across the yard, barking, chasing the truck as the tires crunch and crackle over the gravel toward the house. A mess of colors and darks hang on the line, snapping in the breeze. The porch is loaded with folks waiting on us.

  Graham whistles. “It’s a Rockwell painting.”

  My emotions swirl as I step out of the truck. “Yep, it is.” Mo and Curly jam their wet noses against my hands. I stoop to bury my face in their manes.

  “There’s my girl.” Daddy grabs me and whirls me around. The smell of his aftershave stirs up memories. “Land sakes, it ain’t been the same around here without you.”

  “It’s good to be home.” I kiss his cheek.

  I hug the grandparents, Uncle Dave and Aunt Ginger, and Dawnie.

  “It’s a boy,” she says, patting her round belly. “Steve is thrilled.”

  “Me too. We need some more boys around here.”

  Moving through the family on the porch, I hug Aunt Lynette and Uncle Roland, surprised to see them. Momma, Aunt Lynette, and their older sister, Aunt Carol, patched up a long-standing feud when I was a teen, but the love between them remained a little lean. They typically only gather in one place for the major holidays—Thanksgiving and Christmas. Granddaddy insists.

  Besides the family, there’s the Bluegrass Boys, Jeeter, Grip, and Paul. They hug me as if I were their own and tell me Nashville looks good on me.

  “By the way, the triplets are going to the national clogging championships,” Paul says after a hug and kiss hello.

  “You think they’ll win?” I ask with a wink.

  He pops his suspenders. “I reckon they will. They always do.”

  Momma waits by the kitchen door like the Queen Bee.

  “Hey, Momma.” I fall into her embrace. She smells like home—fresh baked bread, vanilla and spice, and her staple Suave herbal shampoo.

  She wipes her cheeks when I step away. “Well, you look happy and healthy.” For Bit McAfee, the confession is huge. “Mercy, what’d you do to your hair?” She brushes my short locks.

  “Skyler. She thought I needed a new look.”

  Momma pinches her lips. “Louise never did have control of that girl.”

  “Momma, stop. She didn’t do the cutting. Besides, I like it.”

  While the porch crowd chimes in about my hair, “Looks good, Robin Rae,” Graham butts in with an, “Ahem.”

  Oh, right. Graham. “Everyone, this is my friend”—I stress friend—“Graham Young. A very talented guitarist and songwriter.” He’s greeted with a chorus of how-dos, welcomes, and good-to-meet-yous.

  “Guess we can sign you both up for Fourth Fest.” Jeeter’s words tie an instant knot in my gut. Is it too late to change my mind? I shoot a glance at Momma. Her face is pinched.

  Yeah, it’s too late.

  “I’d be happy to play,” Graham says, slinging his arm around my shoulders, hugging me into his side. “Robin’s looking forward to it too.”

  “I saved the best for last, Robin Rae.” Jeeter winks.

  Yippee. All that fear I conquered in Nashville? It’s back.

  On Saturday evening I stand behind the outdoor stage in Pete Hadley’s green field waiting to go on. The fragrance of cut grass and hay lingers in the air, along with the thick aroma of barbecuing meat.

  Seems the whole county has turned out, and half of the next, for this Fourth Fest. More like Torture Fest. Here I am with my family and friends, the silky evening breeze in my face, and I can’t enjoy one minute of it.

  The Dixie Dos have already performed, with a new clogging platform, so I can’t count on them to crash and burn. But, man, it would’ve really helped me out.

  Graham strums a soft song as I pace under the oak tree. Its ancient branches shade the stage while my old nemesis, fear, conquers all my courage. All the strength of my past victories has vanished. Gone. Hightailed it like hungry hounds at the clang of the dinner bell.

  Smiley Canyon strolls toward me from the other side of the generator that powers the lights and sound system. “You going on?”

  Graham answers for me. “She is.” He shakes Smiley’s hand. “Graham Young.”

  Smiley yucks it up. “She is, is she? Wouldn’t be the first time she ran out on a show.” I lurch at him with a growl, and he scoots away knowing darn well I could put a choke hold on him.

  “A friend of yours?” Graham asks, tugging his hat down around his eyebrows.

  “Sorta. Look, Graham, you go on without me. I don’t know what to sing, and even if I did, I’d forget all the lyrics.”

  “Robin, you can’t pull a Frothy Monkey on me now.” Graham’s expression is shadowed by the brim of his hat.

  “She’s been like this since I’ve known her.” Arizona floats toward us with a plate of barbecue. Graham’s shoulders square, and his gaze zeros in on my gazellelike friend.

  “Graham Young.” He bows low, tapping the brim of his hat.

  Oh, brother. “Graham, this is Arizona, who’s taken, so knock off the Don Juan routine.”

  She greets Graham with her bright smile, then offers me a rib. “I thought I should check on you.”

  I refuse the rib. Too full of anxiety. “Can’t do it, Arizona.”

  She shakes the meaty bone at me. “Yes, you can.”

  Graham smirks and falls against the tree trunk. “What’s the big deal? This is home folks. The best audience
anywhere.”

  Home folks? That’s it. I freak and run across the field, aiming at nothing, ending up on the other side of the port-a-potties. Graham follows me. “Is this where you hide? Smells like a barnyard.”

  “We are in a cow pasture.” I thump my hand against one of the traveling bathrooms. “And these are Porta Potties.”

  Graham takes my hand and leads me out to the open field where the wind is clean and white wispy clouds float between the red and gold fingers of the lazy, setting sun.

  I whisper, “I thought I had this beat.”

  “You do. In Nashville. Time to beat it here.”

  “Don’t you ever get afraid?”

  “Of being on stage? No. Of failing? Yes.”

  “Guess I’m afraid of failing too.” I half-laugh, bending down to dab my eyes with the hem of my shirt.

  “Robin, you can get up there with the best of them.” Graham wraps his arm around me. I glean courage from his comfort. “With some songwriters, you wonder how long they’ll hang around before realizing they don’t have it. With other songwriters, you wonder how long it will be before the world sees they’re a cut above the rest of us. You are one of those. A cut above the rest.”

  I tip my face up to him. “I thought my song was sophomoric.”

  He laughs. “You’re graduating, slowly.”

  “So, which cut are you?”

  “Ah, see, that’s my fear. I’m afraid I’m in the first.”

  I hug his waist. Guess we’re encouraging each other this weekend. “If I have to get over my fear, so do you. Look, Danny Hayes wouldn’t write with you if you didn’t have something special. And Frank Gruey wouldn’t give you the time of day, right?”

  He shrugs. “Danny Hayes is an old-school—” He stops and whips me off the ground with a yee-haw. “You ready to blow this gig up?”

  I raise my arms. “Yee-haw.”

  He sets me down like we’re in a slow-motion movie scene. Our eyes lock, and I peel off his hat. Long blond hair tumbles over his forehead.

  Graham swipes his hair away from his face. “Hat head.”

  I swallow hard. “Your hair’s beautiful.” Out from under his hat, Graham’s brown eyes appear ten times brighter. He has strong, even features that go with his strong chin.

  I hold up the hat. “Now why do you want to be Kenny Chesney when you can be Keith Urban?” I run my fingers over his hair. “Better yet, why be anyone else when you can be Graham Young?”

  He tries to snatch back his hat. “Graham Young ain’t much to brag about.”

  “Graham, I’m serious. Why do you hide?”

  “I’m not hiding. The hat is just me.” He lunges for the hat again, but I twist away, giving him a stern, schoolmarm face.

  “It is not you. And if I have to find the courage to go out there tonight, so do you. Sing without your hat and that ridiculous duster, Graham. It’s July, for crying out loud. You’re not Montgomery Gentry.”

  He tips his head and gazes down at me, then snatches for the hat again, or so I think. Instead, he grips my arms and pulls me to him. Then, right there in Pete Hadley’s field with stinky old Rocky watching, Graham Young kisses me.

  19

  Shoot fire. He turns me loose with a swanky smile. If he intended for his kiss to weaken my knees, it didn’t. It tickled my funny bone.

  I snicker behind my hand and toss his hat to him.

  “That bad, short stuff?” he asks, settling his hat on his head.

  I squeeze my lips together. They’re actually buzzing a little. “It was a nice kiss.” Linking my arm through his, I start back toward the stage.

  “Do I need more sex appeal?” He stops, juts one foot forward, and tips the brim of his hat down. “How about now? It’s my best Tim McGraw.”

  I double over, laughing. “Would you stop? Be you, Graham.” I stretch to jerk his hat off again.

  “Robin, come on, give me the hat.”

  “Go on without it.” I run from his outstretched hand while Rocky cheers me on from his pen with a loud bellow.

  Graham chases me. “See, even the bull is on my side.”

  “Your side? He’s rooting for me.” I skip out of Graham’s reach, waving the hat over my head, taunting him.

  He crushes my game with one quick stride. My short limbs are no match for his long ones. He literally tucks me under his arm and carries me toward the stage. I laugh and squirm.

  Jeeter is center stage, emceeing, announcing the next act.

  “We’re up next,” Graham says at the oak tree, strapping on his guitar. He holds out his hand for his hat.

  “Sing without it,” I say, reaching for my guitar, plopping the hat on my head.

  “Can’t.” Graham snatches the hat and walks off to tune.

  Can’t lingers in my ears and sinks down in my soul. With cold fingers, I drop my guitar strap over my head. My heart races alongside my thoughts. I can do this. I. Can.

  “Robin, were you planning on ignoring me all weekend?”

  I whirl around. “Ricky, hello.”

  With his chin tucked to his chest, he swoops me into his arms and kisses me, hard and determined. When he lets me go, I step back, brushing my lips with the back of my hand.

  “You didn’t come over to the house,” I say.

  “I could say the same.”

  We stare at each other for one long, hairy second. Sweet mercy, don’t tell me he wants to have it out now.

  “Robin, come on, we’re next.” Graham bursts into the middle of my stare down with Ricky.

  “Who’s he?” Ricky fires.

  “Graham Young, a friend from Nashville,” I say. “Graham, this is Ricky Holden.”

  Ricky shuns Graham’s handshake and peers down at me. “You brought a guy home?”

  “Hey, take it easy, man.” Graham steps between us.

  “Did I ask you?” Ricky slaps his palms against Graham’s chest.

  Graham stumbles back, holding onto his guitar, a string of blue words spilling out. Getting a foothold, he whips off his guitar and shoves it at me. “You want a fight, homeboy?” He goes nose-to-nose with Ricky.

  “‘Homeboy’? Were you raised in the ’hood?” Ricky balls his fist. Graham circles.

  “All right,” I say. “Come on, this is ridiculous. You’re not fighting.”

  One flashing right hook and Ricky knocks Graham to the ground. Okay, I guess they are fighting.

  Faster than a mad rattlesnake, Graham wraps up Ricky’s knees and drops him to the dirt with a thud.

  “No, no, this is not happening.” I try to get Graham’s attention, or Ricky’s, but there I am, holding two guitars, helpless.

  So I do what any redneck girl would do. Kick them. “Stop it, stop it.” My boot cracks Ricky in the ribs, then Graham, then Ricky again.

  But they don’t give it up, rolling over my foot and almost getting me tangled up in their mess. I hate to do it, but I’ve got to bring out the big guns.

  Screaming.

  “Help! Fight!”

  A herd of men working the stage scramble out at my plea and break the two idiots apart.

  “What’s going on here?” Jeeter asks, standing in the middle of them, hands on his belt. He’s a good two or three inches shorter than both of them, but clearly in command.

  Ricky wipes the blood from his lip, breathing hard. “You’re a smart man, Jeeter. You figure it out.” He walks off with a backward glance at me.

  Tears burn in my eyes. Dang, Ricky. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone,” I yell after him.

  Graham yanks his guitar from me, beating the dirt from his duster with the brim of his hat. “What a son-of-a-gun. You need new friends, Robin.”

  I peer up at him, hand on my hip, chin jutted out. “Yeah, I do.”

  I’d like to walk off, get in my truck, and drive back to Nashville, leaving all this crap behind me and Graham to hitchhike home. But I can’t.

  Why? Because Jeeter is center stage, announcing us. “We got us a real treat tonig
ht, folks. A couple of up-and-coming songwriters from Nashville.”

  “I need a second,” I mutter to Graham, walking off. “Oh, Lord please, peace.” My legs tremble as I circle the oak. “And Ricky, calm him down. Help me know what to do about us.” I circle the oak again, praying, listening for a still, small voice.

  “And now,” Jeeter calls, “please welcome our own Robin Rae McAfee and Nashville’s Graham Young.”

  The crowd’s applause is light, as if they’re unsure. They know: Robin’s not coming out, is she? Bless her heart. And who in the world is Graham Young?

  Graham leaps onto the stage with starlike zeal. I creep up the steps with my head down, feeling like the ugly girl in a beauty contest. My knees are knocking, I can’t catch my breath. And why did Ricky and Graham have to puff out their chests like barnyard roosters. I ain’t their hen.

  Graham walks up to the mike with a big how-do smile. “Hello, Freedom!” Multicolored lights swing over us as the crowd answers with a cheer. There must be a gazillion people out there.

  Graham starts one of his songs. He shouts to me, “It’s in E!”

  Come on, Robin. Focus. How big is your God? You know he’s got you.

  Graham gets the crowd clapping and swaying, and—forgetting he’s in a cow pasture singing to a bunch of rednecks and hillbillies—he busts a move right in the middle of his song. He grabs the mike from the stand and flails across the stage.

  Great day in the morning. No wonder he needs the hat.

  “Take it away, Robin.” He jukes and skips across the stage, whirling the mike over his head.

  I gape at him. Take it away? To where? Graham sways in front of the crowd, “Oh, oh. Oh, oh.” He glances back at me. Play!

  Play what? A guitar solo? Strumming, I stand like a cardboard cutout, plunking and twanging. It’s awful. Weak. What does he want from me? He’s not helping my anxiety one iota.

  “Whoooo!” Graham slaps the mike back in the stand and starts playing again.

  Good grief.

  He sings through the chorus of his song a few times, and I manage a little backup harmony but I still feel pretty much like an elephant tiptoeing through the tulips.

  I work out my jitters on another of his songs, peeking out over the audience from time to time. Arizona’s front and center with her arm linked through Ty Ledbetter’s. Her eye catches mine. She winks. Looky there, she’s in love.