The Song

by Chris Fabry

“I want to see what you come up with.”

  “What’s the budget?”

  When he told her, her face fell. “Dad, that’s going to get us more of the same. We have to spend a little more.”

  “What’s a little more?”

  She told him and his face fell. “We barely make enough to break even as it is, Rose.”

  “But think of it this way. You get a better artist, someone people know, and more people will come. That means more pumpkins and apple turnovers are sold. More people will want to sample your wines and maybe buy a bottle or two. If we attract more people with the musical artist, they’ll be here and hungry and want to take something home with them.”

  “Who are you thinking about?” he said.

  “Leave that to me.”

  And leave it he did. Which caused Rose more concern because she knew almost nothing about music. Oh, she liked to sing and play the radio, had CDs compiled of her favorite oldies, but music was more background noise to her.

  Rose immediately called Denise, who had followed her dream of acting during college and gotten a few good roles in summer stock and dinner theaters. Rose had gone to nearly every production. There had been talk of Denise moving to New York after graduation, but money became an issue and instead a friend had set her up with a studio in Nashville, where she worked as an assistant to a producer.

  Nashville was two or three hours away, depending on where in the city you needed to go, so Denise made it home a weekend a month. When Rose called looking for ideas for the harvest festival, Denise went to work and soon after showed up on Rose’s porch with a list of ten names.

  “They all look good to me,” Rose said. “Why don’t you pick one?”

  “That’s not how it’s supposed to work. We have to think of the best fit for the vineyard. You don’t want somebody singing drinking and women-chasing songs.”

  “Anything would beat the guy spinning plates.”

  “Do you want a group that sings gospel?” Denise held up a brochure with a picture on the front. “This family has been around a long time and they have kids who play every instrument you can imagine. They can come off a little like a dog and pony show, though. You know, ‘Look at our two-year-old play “Dueling Banjos” on the piccolo.’”

  “She’d be a crowd favorite.”

  “Only after you’ve had a glass or two of chardonnay. Let’s put them aside.”

  Rose studied the list of singers and entertainers and the pictures that accompanied their names.

  “How are things with Eddie?” Denise said. “Still on again, off again?”

  “We’re seeing each other,” Rose said. “Dad still doesn’t trust him.”

  “Do you?”

  “You said a long time ago that he was cute,” Rose said.

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I thought finding an artist was the subject.”

  “It is, but you have to tell me about your love life. I’m interested.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I mean, we go out a few times a week. I see him in church.”

  “Church, huh? It’s that serious?”

  “It’s not that serious.”

  “What about his mom? What does she think of the two of you?”

  “She’s . . . a little leery of me, I think. Cautious. She thinks we’ll turn Eddie into a winebibber.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Can we get back to the list? Who’s this girl?”

  “Valerie? She sang the national anthem at a Braves game and got a recording contract about ten seconds later. She’s sweet, but she’s got this big voice that might not fit as well with you guys. I see your stage as a smaller, more intimate thing. Which makes me think of Eddie.”

  “Would you stop with the Eddie questions?”

  “I just care about you, Rose. I had a friend who knew Eddie, dated him a couple of times, and she said he didn’t just look like a puppy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She said he was all paws and lips. She had to smack him to keep him down.”

  Rose laughed. “I hear what you’re saying about the venue—a big-voiced singer probably wouldn’t be good. We want kind of the ‘vineyard unplugged’ feel.”

  “You’re hopeless. Okay, vineyard unplugged.” Denise scanned the page and pictures.

  “I guess I just want somebody who won’t make the young people roll their eyes and won’t make the old people plug their ears.”

  “Then you have to go with this guy. He’s a little rockabilly, lots of patriotic stuff—you know, soldiers coming back from war and remember 9/11. And he can throw in some gospel as well.”

  Rose looked at the name. “Chad Houston? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “That’s your price category—what you can afford. I’ve never heard of him. Now, if you’re willing to pay about $500 more, you move up to Is he the guy who sings . . . ? A thousand more will get you I love that song. Most of the people you know are out of range. These are regional artists with some following, a record or two, but they haven’t made it big. But just think what it’ll be like when you have this Houston guy at the harvest festival and then he becomes a huge star.”

  Rose nodded. “Sounds great. Let’s do it.”

  Denise contacted the right people and Rose had a contract in her hands by late August. The pages were filled with legalese explaining how much to pay Chad, how long he would play, what he needed to drink and eat before the concert, specifics on the sound system required. It all seemed overwhelming until Rose called Denise to ask follow-up questions.

  “I’m surprised all that stuff is in the contract.”

  “Don’t sweat it. He’ll be happy with a check and a Pop-Tart. Trust me.”

  Rose signed the agreement and sent the pages back with the payment to secure Chad. Then she started advertising, sending out flyers and posting things online. The local stores allowed her to put a flyer in their windows and the buzz started going around that the harvest festival was going to be the best ever.

  That was, until mid-September, two weeks before the festival, when Rose got a call from an agency in Nashville. The good news was that Rose was getting back the money she had put up for the concert. The bad news was that Chad Houston had gone water-skiing in between shows while in California, broken his leg in three places, and was canceling all his concerts for the next month.

  “Let me see what I can do,” Denise said when Rose frantically called her.

  Two hours later Denise was back with a strain in her voice. “It’s too late to book any of those other folks on the sheet I gave you, so we have to go with plan B. Or maybe it’s plan Z now.”

  “Who do you suggest?”

  “You can’t be picky with less than two weeks. I know a manager of a couple people. His name is Stan Russel. I saw him this afternoon and gave him one of your cards. He said he has this guy, Jed King, who might be available.”

  “He doesn’t spin plates, does he?”

  Denise laughed. “I’m shooting you an e-mail with his bio and stuff. He’s with a label but evidently not with a label—Stan talked about him being let go. It was kind of confusing. But he said he’s really good, and he sings about God in his songs.”

  “I guess at this point we can’t be that picky. Is he available?”

  “Stan is supposed to talk with him tonight. Promised me he would give Jed your information and have him call you.”

  “I hope it’s soon.”

  CHAPTER 6

  AFTER SOME INITIAL AIRPLAY and buzz for “Son of a King,” and a couple of county fairs, it was back to Louisville—the same bars and honky-tonks. Jed once played on a small stage at a truck stop and it was one of the best crowds he’d ever performed for. Still, he longed to see standing-room-only venues with people clapping along and singing rather than eating pancakes with watered-down Aunt Jemima.

  One night at a little bar the music was flowing and he felt at the top of his game. He sang with all the passion inside him but that was
drowned out by the sound of a pinball machine in one corner and loud conversation through the sparse crowd. When he finished his most upbeat song, there was just no response. Only two women were paying attention, and Jed knew they weren’t really that interested in the music. When the set concluded to a smattering of applause, he made his way to the bar for a drink and the women followed. They were both attractive but on the road to trashy.

  “Great show, Jed.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m Laura.”

  “Katie.”

  He shook hands with them and smiled.

  “Love your stuff,” Katie said, winking.

  Jed glanced at the bartender, who seemed to be hovering.

  “So what are you doing after this?” Laura said.

  “Yeah, you want to party with us?”

  “Party?” Jed said.

  “Yeah, you know.” Laura ran her tongue across her lips and touched his arm lightly. “Party.”

  She said it like she could convey the sexual tension with just two syllables. Like she could explain all she wanted to do with the one word and the way her eyes lit when she smiled.

  Jed cocked his head and took a step toward her. “Laura, do you love me?”

  She looked at her friend, then back at Jed. “Are you serious?”

  He continued, “The mingling of two souls, that’s a serious thing. So I need to know that you love me. That, through better or worse, you’ll be there for me. For our children.”

  Laura got the look Jed loved to see. A mix of disbelief and incomprehension. “What?”

  “Children need to be loved too, Laura. Not just me. The children.” He turned to her friend now, who looked at him like he had a horn growing out of his forehead. “Laura doesn’t seem to get it, Katie. Do you love me?”

  “You’re a freak, you know that?” she said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Laura said as they left, looking over her shoulder with a glare for Jed that conveyed contempt and disdain.

  Jed couldn’t contain the smile and turned to see the bartender staring at him, slack-jawed.

  “You’re crazy,” the man said.

  “I know. I know. Sorry. Clearly I’m the one with the problem.”

  “Those girls wanted you.”

  “Yeah, they thought they did.”

  The bartender sighed, shook his head, and went back to work.

  Jed turned and scanned the crowd, finally finding the person he was looking for in the back. He took his drink and sat in the booth across from Stan Russel.

  “How are you doing, Jed?”

  Jed stretched and weighed his words. “A little tired. Of playing these places. Tired of singing to people who don’t want to hear what I have to say. People who want to drink more than they want to listen.”

  “I’ve told you, it’s a process. Overnight hits tend to flame out. The best course is slow and steady, building a base of fans. You know that.”

  “Stan, what happened to our winning combination?”

  “I’m sorry things haven’t turned out like you wanted. Like we wanted. My hope was that by now things would have taken off, but they haven’t.”

  “And they’re not going to take off unless you start booking me into bigger places with more people. Come on, Stan, we will sell more albums if you get me playing bigger venues. This place sells out at like eighteen people.”

  “I have you in the venues you can fill, okay? There’s a bottom line, my friend, and you have plateaued.”

  “We just need a new approach. On the next album—”

  “There’s not going to be a next album.”

  Jed stared at the man, not able to comprehend what he was hearing.

  “They’re dropping you.”

  It was a knife Jed hadn’t expected. He’d come to the table with all the swagger he could muster, thinking he needed to tell Stan how things were going to be, take the situation under control. But with a few words and a sad look, Stan had pulled the rug out from under him.

  “I’ll find another label,” Jed said, trying to regroup.

  Stan gave him a shake of the head. “Okay, man, I’m going to break it down for you. People come to see you for one reason. They loved your dad. Until you find heart or inspiration or something real to sing about, you’re just going to be David King’s kid.”

  A manager was supposed to build confidence, show a little faith. Build up the artist when he got down. Tell him things would work out, that they were only one break away from hitting the big time. But Jed could tell that the man who was in charge of his music had given up.

  A big sigh. Stan pushed his plastic cup of Coors Light back to the middle of the table. “Your dad was all heart; his songs were inspired. People come to see you because they loved him, and they don’t want to listen to you air out his dirty laundry. I’m sorry, Jed.”

  Funny how something so true could be thrown under the bus so easily. Stan had been excited for the label to hear “Son of a King.” Now he was blaming Jed’s lack of success on the song he’d thought was pure and honest. To Stan and the label, Jed was just another angry son raging against his parents, rebelling. But they had signed him because of the song and were dumping him because of the same song, which only made Jed more angry.

  Stan pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Jed. “A little parting gift from old Stanager, okay? There’s a vineyard over in Sharon that does a big harvest festival every fall. They need a musician. They pay well. And it’s only thirty minutes away. You don’t even have to pay me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious.”

  Jed took the card and tore it in half, then tore it again and tossed the pieces onto the metal table.

  “I’m a bridge. I’m on fire.” Stan leaned closer, his breath stale with beer. “You are brilliant. Appreciate that.”

  “Just go,” Jed said.

  Two hands in the air and Stan rolled out of the booth. “I’m happy to leave.”

  Jed wanted to run the man down and punch him. He wanted to take his guitar and smash it over Stan’s head or toss it through the front window of the bar. Stan just walked away like Jed was nothing. Like that handshake meant nothing, like he was moving on to some other girlfriend and Jed was left standing at the altar.

  Jed stood and followed Stan toward the door, trying to think of something he could say, some knife he could plunge with his words. Then he stopped. He turned and went back to the table and picked up the four pieces of the business card. On the front it said, Jordan Vineyard.

  He retrieved his guitar and let the pieces fall into the hole.

  Jed drove away from the city, away from the light pollution, out into the country where he could see the stars. He turned off the music and just listened to the crickets and frogs, the Kentucky night sounds, watching the lightning bugs rise and the stars become brighter and brighter against the dark sky.

  In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord directs his steps.

  “God, if that’s true,” Jed prayed, “I have to believe you’re directing my steps now. I think I have a gift. I think you want me to use that gift. And maybe I’m not going in the right direction. I don’t want fame like my dad. I’ve seen what that can do. It just leads to heartache. I know I need something more than fame or money or success.”

  Jed found a picnic table by the road and lay down on it, hands behind his head, staring straight up. “I choose to believe that you have a better plan for me than one I can cook up myself. You’ve given me a gift, and if you want me to use that to praise you, I’ll do it. If you want me to dig a ditch, I’ll do that with everything in me. Or build a garage. Or do anything. I’m yours, Lord. I refuse to let a label or a manager dictate how I live my life. Success is not how many records I sell. Success is how close I follow you. Would you show me how to do that?”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE NEXT DAY, Rose collected a stack of ads from store windows and deleted the information about Chad Hou
ston online. The last thing she wanted was people showing up expecting to hear one person and getting another. That wasn’t fair to anybody. She wished Denise had given her the number for Jed King so she could call him. The only contact information online was a number for his manager, Stan Russel.

  She would just have to wait and hope Stan followed through on his promise. She didn’t want to tell her father about the change in singers because she knew how he would react, just scowl and say, “Doggone the luck.” He would pat her on the shoulder but inside, he’d think he should have done it himself, and she hated that. Hated waiting for her father to see that she really could run the vineyard, that she was up to the task.

  Rose pulled up the bio Denise had sent and stared at Jed King’s picture. He was holding a guitar with a crown on the front of it and staring into the distance. He had a boyish face that seemed innocent, thin and angular with a chiseled quality. Dark features. Piercing eyes. But there was a sadness to him, a melancholy that made her feel sorry for him. He wore a faded T-shirt and jeans and the picture exuded a “This is how I am, take me or leave me” quality. There was somebody he looked like, a movie star who’d played a country singer once. What was his name? The guy with the hair and the easy smile?

  Her cell phone rang and she didn’t wait to check the number. How appropriate if she was looking at Jed’s bio when he actually called.

  “Hey, Rosie,” Eddie said when she answered. His voice sent a shiver through her and she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  “Hey, Eddie.”

  “Whatcha doin’? Thinking about me?”

  “Sure. I’m always thinking about you.” But thinking what is the question.

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “And I’m working on the harvest festival.”

  “Baking funnel cakes?” He didn’t mean anything by it or by his laugh, she was sure. Some guys still thought of girls as domestic help—get back in the kitchen and tend to the vittles. But Eddie wasn’t that way. He couldn’t be.

  “No, our singer fell through. Literally—he broke his leg and can’t appear.”