by Kristi Rose
With a weary sigh, Evie nodded.
“Here.” Shea reached up and wiped away the smudge of mascara on her sister’s cheek.
“So much for waterproof.” Evie laughed and returned the favor by dabbing a tissue under Shea’s eyes.
Because she and Evie looked so much alike, every time Shea looked at her sister she was struck with a sense of belonging. For all the twisting in the wind she’d done as a child, hating her home and the hand they’d been dealt with their father, there was no denying this was where she was supposed to be. As horrible as it had sometimes been, today, looking into Evie’s brown eyes, so like her own, she found comfort. A unity with their red hair—though Shea’s was a tad more strawberry—the smattering of freckles, and very pale skin. Their shared history, ironically, gave Shea the sense of being tethered as if she’d found her way back on the map. A feeling she’d lost long ago. Truth was she’d turned her back to it years ago and drifted so far off course she’d been unable to find true north.
The burial was gut-wrenching. Watching Evie break only made it worse and she felt so helpless as she watched Grady hold her up. Somehow they made it through.
As she stared down at the fresh mound of earth, Shea found herself wrapped in the arms of Lorelei Parker—Williams now, she supposed, having married her high school sweetheart last summer.
“Remember that summer my parents took us to Steinhatchee?” Lorelei asked.
Remember? How could she forget? Even the constant smell of the sulfuric waters the town boasted had done nothing to diminish the greatness of her first and only summer vacation. “Your daddy made us eat rattlesnake,” Shea said and let out a deep exhalation.
Lorelei gave a small laugh. “That’s right, I’d forgotten that. Daddy thinks things like gator and rattlesnake are delicacies. It’s no wonder I like to experiment with my food. Anyway, after that trip, when we dropped you all back off at the Crawford’s, I started to cry on the way home. When daddy asked me why, I said I was sad, sad that nothing seemed to be turning out all right for you all, sad that everything had been so difficult. And daddy told me a story. Said he got to talking with your momma one day, asked her how he could help her...”
Shea scratched a new welt on her upper arm. “I wish he could have talked her into leaving my dad.”
Would their life have been any different had their momma left their daddy? She’d likely be alive today and would’ve been someplace other than standing in their front yard when he came home one evening, drunk, overshot the driveway and crashed into the house. Pinning their momma between the house and car. He’d died instantly in that wreck and she hadn’t, living the rest of her days in a nursing home.
“I bet a part of him does as well, but he asked her what she needed help with and she told him that her one wish was for you two to have a good life, to be able to chase your dreams. She spent her days setting you up for that journey, building you up so you could fly. She loved you, Shea, and would be so proud of who you’ve become and what you’re trying to achieve.”
There was no way Lorelei could know that she’d not only embedded a knife deep in Shea’s chest, but had twisted it as well. Until now, what could her momma possibly have been proud of? In true Shea fashion, she was once again too late to show she’d changed. Several years of trying to break into the country music industry, and what did she have to show for it? More broken-up bands than she could count, a handful of bad relationships, a suitcase of broken promises, and proof that she was slow to learn lessons and change her ways. Sure, she’d written a few songs, sold them, and one had done well, but she’d been an absolute failure at what she’d set out to do and holding on to it was killing her from within.
“Thanks, Lorelei.”
“You may not think this is true, Shea, but you have friends here. Just reach out. We care about you and your sister.” Lorelei gave her another hug, rubbed her hands up and down her arms before slipping away.
The drive back to Grady and Evie’s house went by much too quickly and Shea had only a few minutes to catch her breath, cover up with a light sweater, and reapply her makeup before the first mourners rang the front bell. She spent a long moment hugging her dog, Roscoe, finding comfort in his unconditional love.
With a glance at her cell phone, she saw Kimberly, her agent, had called. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t convince herself that she wasn’t a flash in the pan and might actually be talented enough to warrant an agent.
With shaky fingers, she pressed the button to listen to the voice mail.
“Hi, Shea. Again, my condolences about your mother. I hope the funeral went as well as these things can. I don’t expect you to call me back. I just wanted to touch base with you about the interview. They’re really excited to meet you. I was able to postpone it until Friday but they head back to LA after that. I’ve sent an email about what they're looking for; an original song is essential. I know you’re not interested in writing children’s music but this is a step in the right direction for building your name. Call me if you have any questions. Being a songwriter for a TV show is a great opportunity, one that doesn’t come around often, if ever. I’m here, day or night. Reach out. Bye for now.”
She had six days to get her tail back to Nashville. Surely that would be enough time to do whatever else was needed for her mother’s estate, or lack thereof. The hardest part was today and she was half way through that. She would get out of Lakeland, head back to Nashville where she could secure her future. She would finally be something more than the havoc-making, troubled teen. She’d be more than her childhood.
One Billboard number one song had done more for her in the year since she’d sold it than nearly twelve years of trying to break into the industry had even hinted toward. She was not about to let this chance to pass her by.
Shea stared at her phone. She didn’t want to go downstairs and make nice with people who still judged her for her past. She wanted to get lost in the now with the people who were emailing and calling her agent, people who wanted a product from her. Who she knew how to respond to. It was far easier to give than the emotional commitment needed downstairs. Jumping out the window and escaping in her pickup was more like her. But she wouldn’t leave Evie to handle it all. She’d done that for far too long.
Her guitar and banjo rested against the wall and she promised herself she’d spend some time with one of them tonight. Maybe she’d have a breakthrough on a new song, either way she’d find some comfort.
The turnout was larger than Shea expected and she saw a whole new side of her momma. She was able to look past her anger that her momma had never left their drunk father. Instead, she saw a woman who had given repeatedly at her church, helped fundraise and taught Sunday school. She saw a woman who’d sat on the PTA while she and Evie were in school and whose friends were not just the lunch ladies she’d worked with in the school cafeteria. She saw a woman who had been well liked by her community, who had a stream of friends that were standing out on Evie’s deck near her hydrangea bushes holding handmade handkerchiefs, gifts from her momma, laughing, crying, and telling stories that simultaneously warmed Shea’s heart and broke it.
“What a tribute,” the guy next to her said. It was the same guy from the funeral, the one with the sympathetic smile.
Tall, with dark blond hair cropped short except for the top, which flopped over his eyes no matter how many times he pushed it back—he’d done it twice since she looked over—he was not the sort who normally chatted her up. He looked too scholarly for them to have anything in common. Dark brown, round, tortoiseshell glasses gave vision to light blue, laughing eyes. He sported a beard that at first glance looked to be the result of a busy life and a few days growth but upon closer inspection was actually manicured enough that she knew this was part of his look.
And what a look it was.
He was fine, if one liked the Indiana Jones type. Which, honestly, who didn’t? At his root, Professor Jones was a player and all
women liked a guy they could chase and reform. Shea certainly did. But she liked guys who were easy to figure out. This one she couldn’t get a read on.
“How did you know her?” she asked. He looked to be a few years older than her sister, which made him too young to be a friend of her momma’s.
“I didn’t. Not really. I knew of her through your sister.”
“Oh, you went to school with Evie?” That would explain why she didn’t know him. By the time Shea got to high school, Evie was in her senior year; this guy was probably a class or two ahead of her.
“No, I know Evie through Lorelei and Cole. It’s a winding trail, I’ll explain on another day. I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, but you look like you could use a break. I brought Krispy Kreme donuts hoping sugar might help. If that doesn’t work—” he tapped his suit jacket breast pocket, making a soft thunk “—I’ve brought with me a liquid painkiller.”
She raised her brows.
“Sounds like I have a problem, doesn’t it? Does it make it worse or better if I told you I was a writer?”
Shea wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Benjamin Franklin said, ‘In wine there is wisdom. In beer there is freedom. In water there is bacteria.’”
“That might be a nice line. If I drank. If my dad hadn’t been an alcoholic.” Normally, at this point, she’d turn and walk away, shutting out any further attempts at a second conversation or more, but today she stood firm and waited for...something.
“Cripes. I’m sorry. I totally forgot. I didn’t mean to offend you or your sister. Shit, I’m really sorry.” He scrubbed at his beard, his eyes darting to hers.
“Did you say ‘cripes’?”
“Yeah, my mom says it all the time. It’s kinda stuck.”
“My mom said, ‘good grief.’ It’s kinda stuck as well.” She gave him a watery smile.
“I’m Leo. Leo Marshall. You’re Shea, right? Evie talks a lot about you.” He held out his hand. The nails were chewed and small dots of ink stained his fingers.
She smiled and put hers in his. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for coming.” She pointed to the fluffy hound at her feet. “This is Roscoe.”
Roscoe lifted his dark head, sighed, readjusted his front paws, and laid his head back on them.
“He seems very loyal,” Leo said, giving Roscoe’s head a brief scratch before standing up to face her. “Nice to meet you, Shea. Your sister says you’re in from Nashville. What do you do out there? Wait, your sister said something about writing songs. You’re a songwriter, right?”
“Yes—”
“That’s got to be a whole lot better than a wanna-be country star. I bet those are a dime a dozen.” His smile and raised eyebrows spoke of the levity he was attempting.
“I was gonna add that I moved to Nashville to break into the country music business as a performer. Songwriting has been another way to pay the bills.” Until now. Now, songwriting meant something more to her. It was therapy and healing. It was comfort and acceptance. It was the success she’d been chasing.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
She shook her head and drew her fingers over her heart, crossing it.
Leo closed his eyes and groaned. “I should quit while I’m ahead.”
“Who said you’re ahead?” She threw him a bone. “You said you’re a writer? Let me guess, satirical greeting cards? Op Ed pieces?”
“Satirical greetings cards, that’s funny. I’m one of the sports writers for the local paper.”
He had to be kidding. He was wearing a button-down, oxford shirt under his—obviously tailored—suit jacket. He wasn’t wearing tennis shoes and didn’t flex his arms every chance he got. A writer? Yes. A professor? Absolutely. Working in the field of sports? Not a chance.
“Do you play sports?” At the risk of offending his delicate male sensibilities, she posed the question with a modicum of disbelief. She figured she was due a gimme.
“Yeah, tons. Football’s my thing. Your sister and I play on the same charity team.”
“Aw, I see. You play on the girls’ team.” She stifled her snicker.
“All right, you can tease me. But I want one chance at a defense and that’s to say it’s a co-ed team.”
“Sure.” This time her smile did break.
“On that note, I’m going to leave while I am ahead. My objective has been achieved. It was nice meeting you, Shea Barker.” He stuck out his hand and waited.
She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “What objective?” she asked as she raised her hand to take his.
“My one goal was to see you smile. Even for just a moment.”
Her hand slid into his and he clasped it tightly between both of his, leaned in close and said, “As the great Shakespeare said, ‘Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.’” With the slightest squeeze, he slid his hands from hers and walked away. She glanced at her arms, surprised that she hadn’t scratched once while talking with Leo.
She wondered what it was about herself that drew the attention of oddballs. Could they smell her chaotic childhood on her and assume she’d be more understanding? Tolerant? She’d had one decent conversation, well, as decent as one can have considering she was at her mother’s wake, and it was with a booze-toting, dead-guy-quoting, oddly dressed jock who hadn't known the teenage Shea.
Shea sighed and Roscoe looked up at her.
Though she found herself curious about Professor Jones, football player and journalist, and the dichotomy that he was, she couldn't go there. This was not the time for that. Besides, she no longer trusted her perception of people. For the last ten years, she’d been so heavily surrounded by naysayers and takers that negativity had become her normal, her instrument for decision-making and a broken one at that.
Today was about the future, about getting it right from here on out, and she was more determined than ever. She’d never get over the regret of the lost time with her momma or even Evie. Her only silver lining on this dark and cloudy day was knowing she had at least changed her direction or rather, was grabbing for a new one. She’d finally figured out that the bigger picture was not about making it in Nashville, about being famous. That was not what was going to make her happy. Help her overcome her past. Nope. But a respectable job like song writing for a TV show might. A steady income, investments, even healthcare would be her markers for having arrived. Like Evie, she would show everyone that she was not the sum of her parents.
Earlier, when she’d stood over her momma’s grave, she’d promised her she’d get her act together, that she’d become the person her momma had always hoped her to be and letting herself get distracted by an attractive guy was not the way to achieve that. She would not get in her own way. She was going to use those wings her momma had worked so hard to give her.
Momma works to buy us extras, shoes for church and rice and beans~ "WHISKY AND WATER."
CHAPTER TWO
Shea adjusted the muter on her five-string banjo and picked out the melody again. Roscoe was sniffing the fence line, looking for all the places he could mark. The hour was early and she hadn’t wanted to wake Evie, though Grady had left for work a bit ago to teach an early class, so she’d come out to the backyard to work on the thread of a song that had been teasing at her mind since the wake.
The business of the funeral was behind them and all that was left was the healing. A darn near impossible task considering she was already broken into so many tiny fragments. She had no idea where to start. Normally people, or should she say normal people, grounded themselves at home. But she had no home, just a small studio apartment in a less than desirable part of Nashville. Not even a houseplant.
The squeak of the French door opening drew her attention.
“Hey, I brought a peppermint tea. I’m assuming you still don’t like coffee.” Evie sat on the deck stairs next to her, two mugs of steamy amber liquid in her hands.
Shea shrugged. “It reminds me of dad in the mornings trying to combat his hangovers.”
Evie nodded.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Shea said and continued to pick the chords. It was how she worked through the hang-up of finding the melody
“You didn’t. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either.”
“Is that a song I know? It’s beautiful.” Evie blew on her tea and watched.
“No, something I started last night.” It had come out suddenly, moments before she was about to drift off into sleep. Knowing she’d never find the thread again, she’d gotten up and written it down. Sleep after that had been limited.
“You’re really good at this song writing thing.”
“You think so?” She really hoped so because she liked it so much more than performing and standing in front of a crowd, baring her soul. Writing was still a wonderful way to exorcise the demons but if people didn’t like the song then they usually blamed the artist and not the writers. She knew people would find it hard to believe she didn’t like the attention performing in front of a large crowd brought her, considering her antics as a teenager. But honestly, she’d rather stab her eyes out with a hot poker than do one more gig, fight one more time with the band about the set, scramble to find a bass player, and smile with fake appreciation as some Nashville big wig talked down to her about all the things she needed to change.
But writing songs, that came naturally. Having a screwed up childhood helped to add depth to the well.
“You still have daddy’s old guitar?” Evie asked.
Shea nodded. “In a case upstairs. I don’t play it much since I learned how to play the banjo but it’s still in great shape.” Unlike anything else her father had touched. Including them.
Apparently, Evie was thinking the same thing. “At least he was a happy drunk.”
“There is that.”
“You know, momma left a life insurance policy. You and I are about to come into a fair amount of money. So, you’ll get back what you paid on the funeral.”
