Lost in NashVegas

by Rachel Hauck

She cuts a sideways glance at me. “I suppose so.”

  “Do you have family in Nashville?”

  She nods. “Born and raised. Parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins.”

  The ring in her voice is familiar. “I have all that in Freedom, Alabama.”

  “My mom hated Matt. She thought I was the one with all the talent and that he was using me.”

  “Was he?”

  She sighs. “Probably. It’s hard to admit.”

  “Love, for all it’s merits, can be confusing.”

  Mallory chuckles. “Sweet nothings make me weak.”

  A picture of Ricky flashes over my heart “Me too.”

  Raindrops still pelt the windshield, but I figure her engine is cooled by now. “Ready to water your car?”

  “Let’s do it.” Mallory dashes ahead while I grab the coolant from the toolbox in the truck bed.

  She ducks behind the wheel while I fill the radiator.

  “Start the engine,” I holler. Cold rain is running down my hair, into my jacket collar, and down my neck.

  The engine roars to life, and Mallory hops out of the driver’s seat. “Oh, yay! My hero. Thank you, thank you.”

  I twist the cap back on the Prestone. “No problem. Glad to help.”

  “See you around NashVegas.” She pistols her fingers at me with a wink. “Hey, maybe I’ll catch you at the Bluebird Café. You’re gonna sing there, of course. I mean, if you want to be a songwriter, you have to do the ’Bird.” She scribbles her phone number on a ripped gas station receipt. “Call me when you’re going to be there. I’ll come and see you.”

  “Sure.” Hope you’re not married with five kids by then.

  By the time I get back to my truck, Mallory’s little blue car has vanished behind the veil of rain. I shiver and reach for the last of the napkins. If you want to be a songwriter, you have to do the ’Bird.

  Mallory’s right. So focused on moving to Nashville, and not losing my nerve, I hadn’t planned beyond today.

  Anxiety and fear—evil twins, the two of them—buckle up in the seat next to me as I picture myself walking into an open-mike night or trying out for a songwriter’s night. As a member of Nashville Songwriter’s Association, I can sign up to audition for the Bluebird’s Sunday night Songwriter’s Night as early as tomorrow if I want.

  I think I’m getting hives.

  So, I make a Robin McAfee decision. And it’s forbidden to go back on one of my decisions. It’s my own weird rule, and somehow it works.

  Here it is: I’m going to kick fear in the patoot, dig up a mustard seed of courage, and sing at an open-mike night within the month.

  Besides, we don’t know when Jesus plans on coming back, and I sure-as-shooting don’t want to be caught holding my one dinky talent over a hole in the ground.

  “Oops. Hey, Jesus, I’ve been meaning to do something with this . . .”

  On the napkin Jeeter gave me, scrawled in black ink, is Birdie Griffin’s address: 2120 Ashwood Avenue. It’s a boxy-looking three-story brick with a wide stone porch and tall windows. I turn into the drive and glance up at the third floor. Welcome home.

  I park behind an old blue Mercedes and step out. The rain has stopped, but my clothes are still wet from rescuing Mallory. I adjust my jeans, loathing the icky feeling of my skivvies sticking to me. I hadn’t figured on meeting my new landlady looking like a wet pup.

  To hide my wet hair, I reach behind the seat for the Auburn cap Eliza gave me for Christmas her freshman year. Mallory’s hair looked cute, my hair looks like a ragged mop. For the first time, I consider doing something with my hair. New town, new ’do?

  A car horn toots wildly down the street, and a hand waves out the window. I grin and wave back. Skyler. She whips in behind my truck and hops out of her . . . BMW? Wow, Music Row lawyering pays.

  “Robin! You made it.” She runs toward me with her arms spread wide, looking like a snapshot from Vogue. Then says, “You’re . . . wet.” She stops short, lowering her arms.

  “Nice to see you too.” I tug on the Auburn cap. “What are you doing here?”

  Skyler’s one of those instant-connect cousins. No matter how much times passes between conversations, we always pick up where we left off.

  “I couldn’t miss your move-in day. Besides, Aunt Bit called Mom who called me. Yadda, yadda.”

  I shake my head. “Figures.”

  Skyler motions behind her. “My office is right over there off Music Row on 17th Avenue South.”

  “You’re on Music Row?” I hoist my suitcase from the truck bed. Water sloshes in my shoes.

  “Yep, well, not technically, but Music Rowish. A few doors down.” She poses with her hands on her hips. “How do you like me now?”

  Grinning, I hand Skyler the tote bag. “Toby Keith would be proud. Maybe if I can’t make it on Music Row as a songwriter, I’ll slim my way in as a lawyer.”

  Skyler laughs, following me toward Birdie’s front steps. “I always wondered why you never went to college. You’re the smartest of all the cousins.”

  “Don’t know about being the smartest,” I say over my shoulder, setting the suitcase down to ring the front bell. “But I couldn’t take another four years of sitting in a desk, facing forward. But next thing I know, I’m blowing out twenty-five candles and stacking shelves at Willaby’s.”

  Skyler adjusts the strap of my hanging bag on her shoulder. “Well, it’s all going to change now. I’m glad you’re here, Robin. We’re going to have fun.”

  “I have a lot to learn, a long way to go.”

  “So, you can still have fun.” Skyler kicks me with her sword-toe shoes. “Now tell me, whose place is this again?”

  “Birdie Griffin.”

  Her eyes pop. “You’re kidding. Mom would die. She loved Birdie Griffin back in the day.” Skyler sings, “‘Are you gonna keep talking boy? Just kiss . . . me . . . now . . .’”

  “Shhh, she’ll hear you.” Footsteps resound from the other side of the door.

  “So? She’ll be happy to know someone my age remembers one of her songs. Especially since she was a hit in the eight-track era.”

  I swallow a laugh. “Maybe. But let’s not push it.”

  The paned-window front door swings open. “Well, well, Robin McAfee.” Birdie Griffin stands in the doorway wearing a pair of tight blue jeans and a white top. In her mid fifties, she’s attractive, tall and slender, with big blonde hair and long, red nails.

  I meet her brown, snappy gaze and offer my hand. “Birdie Griffin, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  She laughs and pulls me in for a hug. “Any friend of Jeeter’s is a friend of mine.” My face is buried in her pillowy bosom. I hear Skyler’s snicker. “Your apartment is all ready. You called me just in time. I just sent my last tenant packing.”

  “Oh?” I follow her up a wide oak staircase.

  “Tried to make it as a songwriter, but—” Birdie’s poofy hair bounces as she walks “—she couldn’t pay the rent, so I told her to go on home and stop wasting everybody’s time. Especially her own.” She stops at the top of the landing. “Then you called.”

  “Lucky me.” An eerie feeling shimmies down my legs. No fooling around with this woman.

  “Tough business, songwriting,” Skyler offers.

  “It ain’t for the weakhearted.” Birdie starts up the second flight of stairs, her backless high-heeled shoes slapping against her heels. “And you are?” She looks back at Skyler.

  “The weakhearted,” Skyler says.

  “Is she going to be around here much?” Birdie asks with a smirk.

  I nod. “Birdie, meet my cousin, Skyler Banks.”

  “I suppose I’ll get used to it,” Birdie says with a huff, handing me my apartment key.

  Skyler sticks her tongue out behind Birdie’s back. I warn her with a sharp glance to shape up as I unlock the door to my new place and step inside.

  “Wow. Birdie, this is great.”

  “It’s cozy,” she says.

>   The three of us enter into the living room, furnished with a rusty brown-leather sofa, club chair, coffee table, and beige area rug. The bedroom is to the right, behind a divider, and the dining area, complete with a kitchenette, is to the left. The slanted ceiling and angled walls are painted a pale yellow with a soft blue trim.

  Birdie taps the wall with her fingernail. “I picked the trim color, Robin’s-egg blue, the day before you called.”

  “It’s a sign,” Skyler says, walking over to the long row of front-facing windows. “Robin, you’ve got a great deck out here.” She swings open one of the hinged windows. A gust of spring air rushes in.

  “The porch is great for catching the moonlight on a clear night,” Birdie offers.

  Skyler steps through the window. “You can see the rooftops of Music Row from here. Another sign.”

  “Stop with the ‘It’s a sign’ stuff, will you?” I join Skyler on the deck. “Isn’t it enough of a sign that I’m here?”

  I peer through the thick branches of Birdie’s front maple to see the rooftops of Music Row. Well, well. My new home watches over the land of the legends. It makes me feel small and unworthy. Who am I to try to join them?

  “Let me show you a few more things.” Birdie draws us back inside. “Here’s your kitchenette.” She runs her hand along the forest-green Formica counter, then reaches for a pocket door. “You can pull this door and close off the kitchen in case you’re messy.”

  I stand in the middle of the tiny kitchen and hold out my arms so the tips of my fingers almost touch the stove and the refrigerator.

  “Your bathroom,” Birdie says with a clap of her hands, “is through the closet. Did you girls ever see The Mary Tyler Moore Show?” She flicks her hand at us. “Reckon not—too young.”

  “I’ve seen reruns.” I go with Birdie into the broad, deep closet. The floor is covered with orange and green shag carpet.

  “I love Mary Tyler Moore,” Skyler says.

  “Now, here’s your bathroom.” Birdie shoves the door open . . . and a man pops out.

  I scream and jump back. “Great day in the morning.” My heart is thumping and my knees knock.

  “What? What is it?” Skyler crashes into me. “Oh. Wow.”

  Birdie glowers at us over her shoulder. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

  The handsome man winks as he maneuvers his broad shoulders through the doorway. My face burns, and Skyler exhales hot air on the back of my neck. I shove her aside. I saw him first.

  Birdie pats his muscled arm. “This is Lee Rivers. He’s a big-time contractor and a good friend of mine. He humors me by occasionally doing an odd job or two around here.”

  “You’re one of my first and best customers.” Lee puts his arm around Birdie. “The drywall behind the toilet was warped. I replaced it, but it still needs paint. I’ll send one of the men over to finish up. Or—” he peers down at me “—I might see to the job myself.”

  My knocking knees buckle at the same time Skyler falls against me. We almost topple onto him. “I need some painting done at my place,” she says.

  For crying out loud. “Skyler.” I swear she’s salivating.

  Lee grins as if Skyler’s comment tickles. “I only do jobs for Birdie. But I can give you the name of a good painter.”

  “So, Robin, this is your bathroom.” Birdie sidesteps Lee. “It’s small, but sufficient.”

  I squish around Lee—dern, he smells good—and peek into the bathroom. It is small, but I don’t plan on living in there.

  By the time I come out, Skyler is in the living room making third-degree goo-goo eyes at Lee. I’m about to hip butt her out of the way when I catch sight of myself in the closet door mirror.

  My hair is sticking out from under the Auburn hat like I’m the Scarecrow’s bride. And please, is that a grease stain streaking across my right boob?

  I try to wipe the grease away, but I only smear it. Oh, geez. I look up. Lee is watching me.

  “Grease,” I say, pointing to the stain.

  He nods. “I see.”

  Land a-mighty. Did I just point the man to my chest?

  Skyler grabs my arm and pulls me to her. “What are you doing?”

  I whine, “I don’t know.”

  “Stop. He’ll think you’re addled or something.”

  “I am addled.”

  Lee packs up his tools while Birdie talks to him about renovating her kitchen. His triceps bulge under his shirt sleeves when he picks up the heavy metal box.

  “See you girls later.” Birdie stops at the door with a gander at my head. “We just met, sugar, but you best do something about your hair. Don’t want to scare anyone on Music Row.”

  Skyler throws her arm around my shoulders. “I’ll see to it, Birdie.”

  Birdie winks at Skyler. “You’re all right. Did you tell me your name?”

  “Skyler. Skyler Banks. Robin’s cousin and an attorney. In case you need one.”

  Birdie rolls her eyes and closes my door, leaving with Lee, who I swear lets his final gaze linger on my face for a good long second.

  Skyler is about to rave over him when Birdie pops in again. “Robin, I forgot. A friend of mine, a songwriter, Marc Lewis, runs a cleaning service. He said he could use an extra hand if you don’t mind scrubbing toilets for a living.”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  “He’s got a few clients downtown and on Music Row, so you’ll enjoy that part of it. Even if the Clorox gets to you after awhile.”

  I smile. “Thanks, Birdie.”

  “Got his number down in my place. Oh, need your first month’s rent today. Come down to the kitchen when you get settled.” She pauses before closing the door. “Welcome to your new place, shug.”

  8

  While I unpack, Skyler makes an appointment for me at her new hair salon.

  “I don’t have a lot of money, Sky,” I remind her while she talks.

  She smiles and nods, waving me off. “Great, yeah, something chic . . . Color?” Skyler glances at me. “No, she’s got plenty of color. But a deep conditioning treatment would be good.”

  “I don’t have a lot of money, Sky.”

  She plugs her ear and turns her back. The nerve.

  When’s she’s finished talking, she flips her phone shut and says to me, “Wednesday at four.”

  “Did you hear me?” I set the torn picture of Momma and her friends on the top shelf of the bookcase, clear of the open window breeze. “I don’t have a lot of money, Sky.”

  “You’re going to love Bishop’s. It’s a few minutes away but it’s worth the drive. Come by my office, and I’ll go with you.”

  I lean toward her and shout, “How much?”

  She picks up her purse and walks toward the door. “For a shearing? Like . . . two dollars.” She laughs.

  I toss my suitcase on the bed. “Funny. What a funny girl. I get the county cousin bit. Don’t think I’m not on to you.” I note Birdie made the bed with new sheets and a fat new pillow. I can store Momma’s pillows and quilt in the closet.

  “Right, you’re on to me,” Skyler calls from the door. “I have to get back to work, but what are you doing tonight? Nothing? Great. Meet me at the Frothy Monkey at seven.”

  “Frothy Monkey?” I poke my head out the closet door. “What’s a Frothy Monkey?”

  The Frothy Monkey is a coffee shop over on 12th Avenue South. I arrive late after getting turned around on all the one-way streets and stopping briefly in a strip mall parking lot to fight an icky alone-in-a-crowd feeling.

  I admit I’m a little homesick for Freedom. Right now, Momma and Daddy are cleaning up after dinner. The smell of roasted meat and potatoes lingers in the air. In a few minutes, they’ll go upstairs to change their clothes for the Monday night prayer meeting at Ramon and Marsha’s, chatting the whole time about their day.

  Skyler waves at me. “Robin, over here.” She’s standing on the deck with a raven-haired woman.

  I wave back, bumping into a handsome man on my way to
where Skyler is standing. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “Not at all,” he replies in a rich, melodic voice.

  Skyler watches me with her hand over her mouth. When I get to her she says, “You just ran over Gerry House.”

  I look back at him. “Who’s Gerry House?”

  “Mr. Controversy-pants,” offers the dark-haired woman.

  “Mr. Controversy-pants?”

  Skyler smiles. “He’s a big on-air personality for The Big 98 WSIX. Also a songwriter and song publisher.” She tips her head down. “And you just ran him over.”

  “Oh, man,” I look again to where we collided. “Sorry Mr. House.”

  “Robin,” Skyler says. “I’d like you to meet my roommate, Blaire Kirby. Blaire, my cousin, Robin McAfee.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I step up, holding out my hand.

  “Same here.” Blaire’s gaze flickers over my face but doesn’t land there. She looks around me, behind me, but not at me. Who is she looking for? Mr. Controversy-pants?

  I tug my Auburn cap lower on my forehead, feeling like a bloated tick next to the statuesque Blaire. She’s the kind of woman classified as “out of my league” by 90 percent of the earth’s male population. The other 10 percent simply lie to themselves.

  Should’ve showered before I came, but after unpacking, leaving a quick message on the folks’ answering machine, paying Birdie my first month’s rent, and picking up Marc Lewis’ phone number, I fell asleep face first on my new bed. When I woke up, it was time to find the Frothy Monkey.

  “Come on, let’s order,” Skyler says, walking toward the front door.

  Inside the intimately lit Frothy Monkey, a low hum rises from the crowded tables. We wait in line next to the spiral staircase.

  Blaire is first to order. “Café mocha. No, wait, skinny latté. Wait, do you have chai tea?”

  The girl behind the counter grimaces and points her pencil toward the menu.

  “Gee whiz, Blaire, you act like you’ve never been here before,” Skyler moans.

  “Don’t rush me.”

  I hide my grin behind my hand. Blaire’s the kind of woman whose beauty could command a thousand ships, but she can’t decide between tea or coffee. Finally, she decides on tea, then Skyler orders a café mocha while I try one of the skinny lattés.