Nashville Dreams

by Rachel Hauck

  He raises his hands in surrender. “I see. Maybe I’m wrong. You don’t love me.” He turns the knob.

  “Where are you going?” I’m trapped in my own paradox.

  He pauses, facing away from me. Six foot two, confident, kind, successful, lover of Jesus, Lee whispers, “This is starting to hurt too much.”

  “Lee, please, I’m just not ready for marriage.” Say it, Robin, you egghead. Tell him. “I’m only asking for a little more time.”

  “You got it.” The door clicks closed, and his footsteps resound on the stairs.

  I bite back a blue word and kick the wall. Merry end of Christmas.

  31

  Skyler and Blaire share a swanky refurbished condo in Green Hills, not far from Lee’s place. He’s on my mind as I drive down Hillsboro Road.

  I’m sad he’s sad. I hurt because he hurts, and I am really wondering why I can’t force those three little words out of my mouth: “I love you.”

  No, that’s not true. I know why. I’ve never been in love before. Infatuated, intrigued, in like, but not in love. Not even with Ricky.

  My reasons for holding back are unfounded. Lee embodies my courage. He shows up at the Bluebird without being asked and tells me I ruined the audience for all the other songwriters. He supports my career.

  Can’t I trust him with my heart?

  By the time I swing into a parking space in front of Blaire and Skyler’s, my mental debate comes to an end. I love him, and I’m gonna tell him. Soon. Really soon.

  A melody forms in my head, and I scramble in my purse for my black notebook. Gum wrappers, pens, wallet, hair tie, pocketknife—shoot fire, everything but the kitchen sink is in here. Where’s my notebook?

  I check my hip pocket. Ah, there it is. Finding a pen, I jot down a few lyrics.

  For the first time, I feel it,

  Like a warm breeze after a winter rain.

  For the first time, I know it,

  Like the haunting call of a distant train.

  I’m in love with you,

  I’m in love, it’s true

  For the first time in my life

  And it’s with you.

  Skyler swings the door open and jerks me inside. “Praise God, you’re here. I’m running low on sympathy.”

  “I told you to keep a reserve supply.” I dump my new suede Christmas jacket on her head.

  “I can’t do comfort. I can’t do hand holding.” She tugs the jacket off and drops it on the couch. Her hair stands up with static electricity. She looks like Young Frankenstein’s bride.

  “Where is she?”

  “In her room.”

  I take the stairs two at a time, rap twice on her door, then barge in. Blaire’s room is pitch black. When I flip on the light, she screams and slithers under a mountain of blankets.

  “Come on, Blaire, let’s go. Up and at ’em.” I strip back the first layer of covers.

  “No. Go away. I want to hibernate until 2010.” Her muffled voice is buried in the pillow.

  I peel back another layer. “Starting to smell like an onion in there.”

  Blaire pops out like a jack-in-the-box. Her dark hair is tangled and wild, and her eyes are ringed and red. “Smell like an onion? Girl . . .” She plants both feet on the floor, wraps the top blanket around her neck, and struts toward the bathroom, tugging the covers to the ground. “I’m heartbroken, not insane. I showered this morning.”

  “When did you eat last?” Skyler asks, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe.

  “Yesterday,” Blaire responds with no conviction whatsoever. “I think.”

  I start bossing in my big-sister voice, “Blaire, get dressed, comb your hair, put on deodorant—”

  “I told you I showered,” Blaire hollers as she and all her bedding disappear behind the bathroom door. “And I’m not going out.”

  “All right, Blaire, you leave me no choice. I’m calling Ezra.”

  I whip around to Skyler. “Whoa, bringing out the big guns.”

  The bathroom door flies open. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Skyler narrows her eyes. “Watch me. I’m gonna tell him how devastated and distraught you are, crying over him.”

  Blaire’s presses her lips into a tight line. “Two minutes. I’ll be ready.”

  “Good.” Skyler motions for me to follow her downstairs. “My father gave me an iPod for Christmas. I downloaded ‘I Wanna Be.’”

  Two minutes later Blaire comes down looking like death warmed over. Her ratty hair is out of her face, bunched up in a half ponytail, but stray wisps fly about her face and neck. Baggy sweats hang from her slender frame, and her porcelain skin looks blotchy and pasty.

  I clap my hands and smile. “Great. You look—”

  “Horrible.” Skyler steps up. “You’re actually going out like that?”

  Blaire smoothes her hand over the university letters of her sweatshirt. “Ezra used to wear this when he played football in the park.” She flops forward over the brown chair. “I want Ezra,” she wails. “Why? Why did he break up with me?”

  I grab her shoulders and push her upright. “Blaire, get a hold of yourself. Why do you even want a man who’s stupid enough to let a beautiful, wonderful woman like you get away?”

  “Robin, I’m not as strong as you.”

  Skyler sighs from where she waits by the door. “Good grief, it’s the pot calling the kettle black. You’re doing the same thing to Lee, Robin.”

  “I am not doing the same thing to Lee. Do you write your own fairy tales or get them from the Soap Network?”

  “What? You are so doing the same thing to Lee.”

  I argue with Skyler while trying to steer Blaire out the door. It’s like trying to grasp a flopping fish.

  Skyler tosses Blaire’s coat over her shoulder. “We’ll take the Beamer. I have child locks in the back.”

  Once we get Blaire in the car and buckled up, she starts crying. “He said he loved me, y’all. Love. You don’t just say it if you don’t mean it.”

  Skyler turns left out of the complex. “Let’s go to the Mellow Mushroom for pizza.”

  Blaire slaps the back of my seat. “He said he loved me. Creepasoid liar.”

  Skyler brakes for a red light. “Then be glad you’re no longer tied to a creepasoid liar. He did you a favor.”

  “But he’s a Christian man. Why’d he lie?”

  A high-pitched, fake, “Ha, ha,” peals from Skyler. “How’re those rose-colored glasses fitting, Blaire?”

  “See, this is exactly why I haven’t told Lee I love him. I don’t want to utter idle words.”

  Blaire flops back against her seat. “How could I be so blind and stupid?”

  I stretch over the seat and grab her arm. “Blaire, stop. He charmed all of us.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll always be alone.”

  Skyler swerves into the parking lot across from the Mellow Mushroom. “You will not be alone, Blaire. And Robin, good grief, you love Lee and you know it.”

  “You can’t let him get away, Robin,” Blaire whispers.

  “Lord?” Skyler addresses the roof of her car. “What’ll you give me for these two loons?”

  “Speak for yourself, I-get-bored-with-a-guy-after-two-dates.” I shove open my door.

  “I do not. More like five dates.”

  We banter about relationships as we walk into the restaurant. Finally, Skyler sums it up. “Blaire, you always toss your heart out like it’s a two-dollar Frisbee. Why don’t you just be happy being you? Blaire Kirby, fantastic photographer, lover of God, beautiful woman. Why do you need a man?” She puffs the paper from her straw. “And you, on the other hand.” She points to me. “Stop being stubborn and afraid. It’s getting old. Seal the deal with Lee. Please.”

  I stick my tongue out at her. “I’ll say it when I’m ready.”

  “Nothing wrong with waiting until you’re ready,” Blaire says, reaching for a napkin.

  “Fine,” Skyler says. “Then, let’s talk about
me.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Blaire says with her first genuine laugh of the night. “We never talk about you.”

  Jim picks me up for dinner two days before New Year’s Eve. He wants to take me to his favorite steak place, The Stock-Yard Restaurant, over on 2nd Avenue North. “The owners renovated the old Nashville Union Stock-Yard building. Livestock was traded down here for about fifty years, but when they closed down, the buyers couldn’t believe the marble and cherry wood décor of the offices. Made for a great renovation.”

  “I love this town.”

  Jim chuckles. “This town has had everything. Gospel to rock music, sports, the Grand Ole Opry, and some of the finest dining anywhere.”

  “Nashville is starting to feel like home.”

  He cuts a glance at me. “I’m glad. And I hope you like steak. The Stock-Yard serves the best Angus Beef.”

  “I never turn down a good steak,” I say as we head down Broadway.

  The Stock-Yard is amazing. The atmosphere is Victorian with rich wood trim and a shiny marble floor. A heavy chandelier hangs from a domed skylight and illuminates the entrance. The ambiance is rich and classy.

  A burly cowboy of a man greets us with open arms, “Jim, good to see you.”

  I choke back a laugh, unprepared for the big man to have a high, squeaky voice.

  Jim motions to me. “Robin, this is the manager, Rusty Allender. Rusty, this is my, well—”

  I offer my hand. “Daughter. Robin McAfee.”

  Rusty shakes my hand. “Very nice to meet you.” Then he pounds Jim on the back. “Good heavens, man. Known you ten years and never knew you had a kid.”

  “Actually, we just met.” This is hard for him. A chink in his armor. But he’s swallowing his pride with dignity.

  “Congratulations, then.” With much pomp for a small circumstance, Rusty escorts us to a nice booth in the back.

  “Pick an appetizer, you two. On the house.” Rusty pats his broad, hairy hands together. “Rooster fries?”

  Jim looks at me, grinning.

  I squirm. “No, please. No.”

  “Give us a couple of shrimp cocktails and iced teas please,” Jim says.

  Rusty’s big laugh billows behind him as he barrels toward the kitchen.

  “He asked on purpose. He likes to mess with people,” Jim says, reaching for his silverware, unrolling the napkin.

  “Rooster fries.” I shiver.

  “So, tell me about Robin McAfee,” Jim says, as a server comes with our teas, promising our appetizer will be out in a moment.

  “Not much to tell.” I give him the lowdown on growing up in Freedom, my short-lived college career, and the four jobs since then, singing on the porch with Granddaddy and the Bluegrass Boys, the family.

  “So, are you married?” I ask Jim. “Any other kids?”

  Jim shakes a packet of sweetener then dumps it in his tea. “I almost got married a few years ago, but we called it off. And, you’re my only . . .”

  A different server brings our shrimp. “Ready to order?”

  “Oh, no, I haven’t even looked.” I reach for a menu, but Jim cuts in.

  “Care if I order for you?”

  I pause mid-reach. “Okay, yeah, sure.”

  He orders a prime rib with baked potato, fixings on the side, and a salad with ranch dressing, on the side. And a porterhouse for himself.

  “How’d I do?” He leans toward me.

  “Freakishly well.” I grin. “I like blue cheese more than ranch, but it’s good.”

  “I’ll remember next time.”

  “Next time, I’ll order for you.”

  He laughs. “Now you sound like my kid.”

  It’s weird, but I don’t mind him saying I’m like him. Sort of puts some of my quirks into perspective. “Why’d you start Nashville Noise?”

  Jim spears a few shrimp for his plate. “I wanted to be an artist.”

  I take a big gulp of tea. Shrimp isn’t my favorite. “So you started your own label?”

  “Not at first. I was going around town with my guitar, pretending to be Glen Campbell mixed with a little Roy Orbison, but I never made it to the stage.”

  “Why?” Boldly, I take a few shrimp and spoon some cocktail sauce. Don’t want him to eat them alone.

  “Stage fright.”

  I freeze, mid-cocktail sauce dip. “You? I got it from you? All these years, feeling like an alien, writing songs without the guts to sing them, and it was you all along.”

  “Certainly not your momma. She wasn’t afraid of the stage.” He stares me straight in the eye. “I admire you.”

  “This is unbelievable. I feel like I’m seeing myself for the first time.”

  Jim chuckles. “I’m sorry, I should’ve—”

  I hold up my hand. We’ve covered this territory already. “So, anyway, you wanted to be an artist.”

  “Yeah, so one night, I was backstage at the Ryman with some songwriters I’d done some arrangements for, and this young woman with a big voice hits the stage.”

  “Momma?” I asked.

  “No, Grace Harding. She was engaged to Tuck Wilder, and they were fighting like cats and dogs before the show. Hitting and spitting.”

  I laugh. “You’re kidding.”

  “The stage director comes back, tells them to knock it off, they’re on in five minutes.”

  “What’d they do?”

  Jim chuckles. “Grace stood up and said, ‘Help me get ready.’ And Tuck trotted off after her, telling her to wear her blue-sequined dress. Grace came out and sang like a pro, left the stage, and went back to fighting with Tuck. I pulled them aside and said, ‘We have to work together.’ Two people with that much passion had to make some great music. I formed Nashville Noise and signed Grace and Tuck the next month.”

  “Unbelievable.” Our server comes around with our steaks. My stomach rumbles. “You know, I saw something in Graham Young when he talked music with Granddaddy and the boys back home. I think he has a knack for recognizing talent and trends. Too bad he’s—”

  “The boy is arrogant.”

  “Too bad he’s afraid of failure,” I say.

  By the time our food arrives, the conversation flowed from the music biz to Jim’s family. Over thick juicy steaks and buttery potatoes, I learned he has three sisters and two brothers. And more nieces and nephews than I care to count.

  The idea of a whole new family makes my head swim. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep our relationship between me and you for now.”

  He saws off a large chunk of steak. “Your choice.” His gaze shifts to my face. “But I have to tell you, my mother’s been praying for you for a long time.”

  His confession catches me off guard, and my eyes well up. She watched over me without ever laying eyes on me. “I’d like to meet her . . . someday.”

  “She’d like that a lot. You say when.”

  By the time dinner is over and dessert consumed, I’m stuffed and sleepy, but content. Discovering Jim Chastain has been the best part of the night.

  While Rusty and Jim haggle over who’s picking up the check, I excuse myself to the ladies’ room. As I round the corner, humming a melody, I hear, “Hold this for me, Lee, darling, I’ll be right back.”

  I look toward the lobby. Standing there, holding a woman’s purse, is Lee I-love-you-Robin Rivers. He’s dressed up, looking darn handsome in a brown suede jacket and jeans. His hair has been trimmed since he dropped me off at home, and apparently he’s acquired a tall, leggy blonde.

  “All set?” she asks, returning. She’s gorgeous.

  “Sure,” Lee says, shining his suave smile on her.

  I start to shake all over. Lee?

  “Robin, is everything okay?” Jim’s hand touches my shoulder.

  “Fine.” I watch Lee and the blonde follow the hostess to a table on the other side of the restaurant.

  Jim hands me my coat lovingly. “He’s not the two-timing kind, Robin.”

  I look up at him. “Th
anks for dinner.”

  I feel ill.

  32

  “Okay, here’s what you do,” Skyler says over the phone while I lay on my bed. “Write him a song.”

  “Write him a song?” My face itches from the dried tears.

  “And sing it to him at the Bluebird.”

  “Sheesh, like that’d be comfy. Hello, strange people, please join me in this very intimate moment while I tell my boyfriend I love him for the fist time. Hold your applause until I’m done baring my soul.”

  “Are you PMSing?”

  “No. You’re ridiculous.” I sit up and stuff my feet into my Nikes. “You know what? Forget strategy. I’m going over to his house and tell him.” Seeing Lee with another woman did what nothing else could do—give me the courage to tell him.”

  “That-a-girl. Take action.”

  I slip on my jacket. “What if she’s there?”

  “She who? Didn’t we decide Lee’s a one-woman kind of guy. Look what he did with you when his ex needed him.”

  “Right. Here I go.” It’s eleven o’clock, but I don’t care. Lee Rivers is going to hear “I love you” tonight. Preferably from me and not the leggy blonde.

  Hidden among maple and hickory trees and one weeping willow, Lee’s house on Sharondale Drive is pitch black. Not so much as a porch light glowing. I park my truck next to his garage and cut the engine.

  Now what? I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. I’ve never done this before. Made a move on a man. Ricky chased me for over a year before I let him catch me. When he said he loved me, I asked him if he wanted ketchup or mustard on his hotdog.

  But my life is all about change and discovery these days. Who knew I’d move to Music City and discover my red hair is not from cousin Mickey O’Dell, four times removed? Who knew I’d find out the blood of a Music Row tycoon flows through my veins? Who knew I’d have compassion for the man who stole my song? Who knew I’d figure out that being found comes only after being lost?

  And who knew I’d fall in love for the first time? Not me. Yet here I am.

  Cold air seeps into the truck cab. The tip of my nose is getting numb. I figure I’d better do something or go back home. Glancing up at Lee’s window, I rub my hands together for warmth, thinking, and stalling.