Nashville Dreams

by Rachel Hauck

  Get out and knock on his door. The night ain’t getting any younger.

  I shove the door open, then slam it shut again. Wait. What am I going to say? “Hey, Lee. Did I wake you?”

  Or, “Hey, about you and that blonde? I’m not jealous, but by the way, I love you.”

  There. The three platinum words. “I love you.” Here goes. Knock on his door, and when he opens, fall at his feet and grovel.

  Wait, that’s a terrible plan. What if he’s still upset with me? What if he doesn’t love me anymore? What if the blonde really is the other woman? I chew on the tip of my thumbnail.

  Mountain of indecision? Meet valley of regret. I’m paralyzed by my own ability to see both sides.

  The passenger door creaks open. I scream.

  “Robin. Hey, hey, shhhh. It’s me. What are you doing?”

  “Lee! Great day, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  He slams the passenger door shut and walks around to my side. My legs wobble as I step out. He shines his flashlight down on me.

  I pop his arm. “You scared me.”

  “What’d you want me to do, leave you sitting in the driveway all night?”

  “You knew I was here?”

  “I saw you pull in.”

  “Well, why didn’t you come out?”

  “I just did!”

  “Oh, forget—” I glance at Lee in the glow of his flashlight. He’s wearing a pair of baseball pants (no lie), old-man slippers, and a long, Darth Vader-like robe that hangs open. She-doggies. I whirl around. What is it with me and guys with six- packs.

  “Robin?” His hand touches my shoulder.

  “I love you, Lee Rivers. There. I said it. I love you.”

  “Gee, Robin, you sure?” Sarcasm oozes. “I’d hate to force you.”

  Six-pack or not, I whirl back around and kiss Lee Rivers like he ain’t been kissed ever before. At least not from me. When I let go, he stumbles back.

  “Wow!”

  Every fiber of my five-four being pulsates. “Are you in love with that blonde chick?”

  “W-what blonde chick?” He takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

  “The one you were with at The Stock-Yard.”

  “You were there?”

  “With Jim. Please, don’t love her.”

  He shakes his head. “Valerie’s a client.”

  I exhale my last anxiety. “She’s not the other woman?”

  “There is no other woman. Just you.” He grips my collar. “I love you, Robin.” He kisses me as if he wants to permanently seal the deal.

  I lay my head against his bare chest. The night is cold, but Lee is warm. So very warm.

  “I know you’re not ready to talk marriage, Robin, but it feels great to hear you love me.”

  “Lee,” I whisper, “I’ve never been in love before.”

  His heartbeat quickens. “Oh, I see.” He rests his chin on my head. “How do you like it so far?”

  “I like it.”

  Then, there’s a rumble in his chest. “So, you were jealous of Valerie Floyd?”

  I push away. “No.”

  “You just happen to decide to tell me you love me at eleven o’clock at night after seeing me with Valerie?”

  “Well . . .” I lift my chin. “I’d already decided, but seeing you with her made me realize I shouldn’t wait.”

  “You wanted to make sure I didn’t run off with another woman.” He slips his arm around me and walks toward the house. “I see how it is. But what you don’t know is that Jim and I worked out this big plot to trick you.”

  I laugh. “Liar.”

  He laughs. “How about some hot chocolate?”

  “I’d love some.”

  The night wind whistles through the trees. It’s cold and crisp. Love is in the air, and I’m taking a deep, deep breath.

  The third Thursday night of February, I’m ready for Pitch-to-Publishers night at NSAI. Jim and I agreed it’s good for me to go through the steps of becoming a published songwriter.

  He calls it grooming.

  I call it agony.

  But I don’t want to be a one-hit wonder, which I would’ve been with “Your Country Princess.” I still have some things to learn about writing lyrics and melodies that strike a chord with folks.

  I have a new song, “He’s Not the Two-Timing Kind.” Got the idea after seeing Lee with the leggy blonde. I’ve polished the song at open-mike nights and even endured another song critique with Susan West and one with Walt and Birdie. (Which, by the way, were brutal. Bru-tal.) But their input inspired me to make it a better song.

  Jim met with Marc too. Liked his stuff and suggested we get together. We have an appointment to write next week. I’m going to like songwriter Marc Lewis way more than boss Marc Lewis.

  Just before the workshop, a fellow songwriter named Quinn Damon catches me in the foyer. “Hey, Robin, Mallory Clark was looking for you.”

  I make a face. “Mallory Clark? Really? How do you know Mallory Clark?”

  Quinn scoffs like I’m an idiot or something. “You gotta keep up with the news if you’re going to make it in this industry.”

  I sigh. “Right, Quinn. Anyway, Mallory?”

  “Mallory just signed with Curb Records as an artist.”

  “Mallory Clark? Petite chick with soulful eyes?”

  “She’s the one.”

  “What’d she want with me?”

  He shrugs. “She didn’t say.”

  I dig my cell phone out of my purse and make the call.

  “Hey, it’s Robin . . . Fine, how are you? . . . I know, I just heard. Fantastic . . . I’d be blown away too . . . Oh? Really? . . . Sure . . . Right, I understand.” I check my watch. “Noshville Deli in thirty minutes.”

  I press End. Well, what do you know? How far a little kindness goes.

  Quinn passes by again. “What’d Mallory want?”

  A big grins splits my face. “Have a nice evening, Quinn.”

  “Robin, aren’t you staying for the workshop?”

  “Not tonight.” I dial another number. “Hi, are you in the office?”

  A few minutes later I meet Jim at Nashville Noise. “What’s on your mind?” He rocks back in his big leather chair.

  I start to sit across from him but notice something new on his credenza. “Where did you get those?”

  Jim glances over his shoulder. “Your mom sent them.”

  I walk around his desk. “Oh, for crying out loud. She sent you these?”

  There’s a shot of me when I was three holding onto a big plastic guitar. Another one when I was ten with Granddaddy’s Taylor guitar. It’s as big as I am. Then pictures of my high school graduation and one of the whole family.

  “She said your brother serves over in Iraq.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you don’t mind . . . about the pictures.”

  “No, no.” Watching Jim catch up on being a father, reconciling his past with his present and future, is sorta cool in an odd, quirky way. “I have more pictures if you want.”

  He turns to his desk. “That’d be great.” His voice is gruff and low. “Maybe we could get one of, you know,” (cough, sputter), “us. Me, and you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He nods, then chuckles as I tell him how six of us toilet papered the school courtyard the night before graduation. When the principal handed me my diploma case, I opened it up to find a square of toilet paper. Scribbled on it was “See me.”

  He laughs.

  “I liked to have died, right there.”

  He asks about the other pictures, and I give him little anecdotes, sitting on the edge of his desk.

  “I’m glad you had a nice life.”

  I grin. “It’s getting better. Mallory Clark called me. She wants to cut some of my songs for her new CD.”

  Jim smiles. “I heard about her deal. Let’s sign you to Nashville Noise Publishing before this ball gets too far down the lane.” He’s in command now. />
  “Are you sure?” I hop off the desk. “I’m sure SongTunes or—”

  “Funny, very funny. Remind me to thank your mom for raising a sarcastic kid.”

  I sit across from him. “Jim, seriously, do you think I’m ready?”

  He stands. “Not entirely, but Mallory has a unique sound, and a few of your songs might work well with her.” He clicks off his desk lamp and closes the lid to his laptop. “But even if you weren’t my daughter, I’d want to sign you. So, let’s do it.”

  “Thank you.” I stand. “I’m supposed to meet Mallory and her producer at Noshville in ten minutes. Will you come with me?”

  He walks over to the coat tree and picks up his jacket. “What are fathers for?”

  33

  Run across Pete Hadley’s field with one leg in a cast while his bull, Rocky, chases me.

  Smack a baseball through Old Man Crumley’s window while he watches from his front porch.

  Bump into Freddie Krueger on a dark and stormy night.

  Three things I’d rather not do than stand backstage at the Freedom Music Hall waiting to go on with Momma wearing look-alike outfits.

  It’s the first of May, springtime in the hills. They’re ready to sing.

  And so am I. As we wait, I confess, I’m a little nervous. Maybe a lot nervous, but it’s anticipation, not anxiety. God’s brought me a long way. I’m not turning back now.

  Smiley Canyon saunters over. “You ready to go on?” He nudges me in the ribs with his pointy elbow.

  “You bet.” I nudge him back.

  Smiley cackles. “Can’t believe a year in Music City and you’re cured.”

  “Let’s just say, I lost my fears in NashVegas.”

  “All righty, I’ll buy that. I’ll buy that.”

  When I look Smiley in the eye, I see what I never thought I’d see. Respect.

  “I’m proud of you, gal. Plumb proud.”

  “That means a lot, Smiley.” I sniffle and clear my throat.

  “Get ready, Robin. You and Bit are up next.” Jeeter grins as he straightens his bolo tie. “Hey now, those are some red boots. Where’d you get them?”

  I slide my foot out to show them off. “Boot Corral. A gift from my cousin.” I glance at him. “Have you seen Momma?”

  “Nope.” The old emcee shakes his head with one eye on center stage. The Blues Street Boys are singing again. “Shew-wee, somebody’s gotta tell them fellows that harmonies are supposed to be, you know, harmonious.”

  I nudge him forward. “Go ahead, tell them.”

  He steps away. “You tell them.”

  “Not me. I’m just a freebird singing her songs. If The Blues Street Boys have courage enough to get up there and sing, who am I to tell them different?”

  Jeeter jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Go find your momma. This is their last song.”

  I set my guitar down just as Arizona and Eliza come up the backstage steps. “You seen Momma?”

  “No,” Arizona says, her big round diamond sparkling on her hand. Ty just asked her last week. I’m a maid of honor again. “We came to make sure you were going on.”

  I push past them. “Please. The fear stuff was so last year.”

  Eliza laughs. “You think Momma caught it from you?”

  “I don’t know, but we need to find her.”

  Arizona says that she’ll check outside, and Eliza heads off for the dressing rooms. I make a bee line for the ladies’ room.

  The door is locked. “Momma?”

  “She’s not in here.”

  I press my lips on the crack between the door and the metal frame. “Sure sounds like she is.”

  Momma opens the door and jerks me inside. A wad of wet paper towels drips from her hand.

  “I can’t go on. It’s been twenty-six years since I sang on stage. What was I thinking? I’m not young, cute, adorable Bit Lukeman anymore.”

  Fear blows over me, but only briefly. “You’re going out there, Momma.”

  “I’m not going nowhere.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  We do another round of this before I get an idea. “I’ll be right back.”

  Scurrying out to the stage where the Blue’s Street Boys are bowing to mild applause, I catch Jeeter’s attention. “Pssst. Come here.

  He shakes his head and waves me onto the stage. Oh, brother. I scuttle out, the heels of my boots thumping against the ancient hardwood. I whisper in Jeeter’s ear.

  He nods and announces, “Would Carol Honey and Lynette Good please meet Robin backstage? Quickly.”

  “Be right back,” I murmur to Jeeter.

  “What am I supposed to do?” he asks.

  “Sing a song.”

  “We’re ready.”

  Jeeter stops singing immediately. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased as punch to introduce the highly anticipated Robin Rae and Bit Lukeman McAfee.”

  Shoving against the applause, Momma and I rush out on stage with Aunt Carol and Aunt Lynette. Daddy’s all smiles from the front row, with Lee next to him. They talked out on the porch last night, in cahoots with the crickets who sang over their conversation. My stomach knots when I think of Lee, down on one knee, asking, but I know my answer will be yes.

  Next to Lee, Granddaddy and Grandma Lukeman beam. Then there’s Grandpa and Grandma McAfee, Lee, Eliza, and her new man, a rodeo clown named Rascal, and my brother, Steve, home on leave. He’s holding his son, Burch, while Dawnie leans against him.

  One row back, Arizona and Ty snuggle together, and next to them is Jim Chastain. Momma invited him down and one Miss Henna Bliss latched on to him. By the smile on his face, I do believe Jim Chastain has a fondness for Freedom women.

  I plug in my guitar. “Good evening, Freedom.”

  Freedom answers with shouts and whistles.

  For one second, the bottom of my stomach drops out, but my courage reaches down for the save.

  “Many of y’all remember the Lukeman Sisters.” Applause ricochets around the room. “For the first time in twenty-six years, they’re going to sing one of their favorite hymns together.”

  I start “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” At first, the Lukeman sisters are spread across the stage, stiff as doorknobs. But their voices are sleek and blended, their harmonies perfect.

  When they belt, “Grant it Jesus is my plea,” Momma walks over and slips her arm around Carol who then gathers in Lynette. When the song is done, so is the healing.

  Momma is warmed up now and in the groove. She gives me the signal, and I start the song she wrote for Daddy. He whips out his hanky when Momma’s velvet voice sings, “You’re the melody of my life.”

  The place goes nuts when she finishes, and Momma is still the darling of the stage.

  When the applause dies down, I start my latest song, “Midnight Blue.”

  “I wrote this with a friend of mine, Marc Lewis. We almost got a cut on a CD by new artist Mallory Clark, but . . .” I peer at Jim, “better luck next time.”

  Momma sings backup while Aunt Carol and Aunt Lynette sway in the corner just out of the spotlight.

  My voice soars above the thousand pairs of watching eyes. God’s pleasure washes down. I know beyond all doubt He’s my strength and song.

  And this, I will do for the rest of my life.

  Epilogue

  Hello from Nashvegas, everyone! Robin Rae Rivers here. I’m so thrilled to update you on what’s been going on in my life. Can you believe it’s been twelve years since we were last together?

  You may remember I struggled with anxiety, which made singing in front of people near impossible sometimes. But God is a God of peace, and the more I meditated on that truth, the more my anxiety and my pesky little fears became a lie.

  It took some doing to get my body not to react, but after a while, it came into alignment too. Now performing on stage is one of my truest joys.

  When we were last together, I’d just confessed my love to Lee Rivers and almost h
ad a song cut on the new Mallory Clark CD. Even though we didn’t make the final recording, our song shuffled around Nashville for a while, then the great Aubrey James cut it for her newest album, and the rest is history.

  We just wrote our fifth album together.

  I married Lee and we have three babies of our own and four we adopted out of foster care.

  Just as my career was taking off and baby number one entered the world—she’s almost a tween now!—Lee received an offer for a home show on the Style Network, and we’ve been running on jet fuel ever since.

  He’s won awards for his home designs. I’ve won awards for my songs. But you know what we love best? Raising our brood of seven. They range in ages four to ten. The youngest two are both four—one African American and one Hispanic. Above them are five-year-old twin Asian girls. It’s like having quadruplets, and I won’t lie: it’s exhausting.

  My oldest three, two boys and a girl, are a big help, and I fall asleep at night the moment my head hits the pillow. But I’m smiling.

  Lee is an amazing husband, dad, businessman, Jesus-lover. I couldn’t be prouder of him. God knew what He was doing when He made Lee Rivers for me, and me for him.

  Granddaddy Lukeman had a heart attack a few years back and gave us all a scare. But he’s alive and well, picking and grinning, making music in Freedom, Alabama.

  Daddy and Momma are ready to retire but have a few years to go. As a surprise, I bought them an RV two Christmases ago, and they make full use of their vacation to travel around the country.

  My sister, Eliza, is a book editor in the UK. She went to Cambridge and never came back. She’s married to a British aristocrat, has two kids, and hobnobs with royalty now and then.

  Cousin Skyler married another lawyer, who recently ran for state representative. So we have politicians in the family now.

  Former-model-turned-photographer Blaire Kirby moved to LA and travels the world with her camera. She’s not married, and I’m not sure she’ll ever settle down. She loves her job and the world she sees behind the lens.

  Former country star Birdie Griffin went on to be with Jesus last summer. She went to sleep one night and never woke up. She was only fifty-six. I still miss her. But I think Jesus wanted her with Him, face-to-face.