by Rachel Hauck
“Blaire,” Skyler launches the conversation as she leads the way to a table on the outside deck. “Robin’s a songwriter.”
We sit at the last vacant table. The cool night is hosted by an array of stars twinkling down from a clear Nashville sky.
Blaire tips her head at me. “In Nashville? How unique.”
“Blaire.” Skyler pops her lightly on her hand, tossing me an I’m-sorry look.
Blaire offers no apology.
I sink down into my chair. Blaire and I size each other up while Skyler does most of the talking. A table of guys across the way are watching us like dogs on the hunt. Their fat textbooks are cracked open under their noses, but something or someone at our table is way more interesting.
And it ain’t me.
Skyler rises halfway out of her chair and hollers across three tables. “Hey, dudes, tongues back in your mouth, noses back in your books.”
The boys jerk their faces back to their books, as amused by Skyler as they were captivated by Blaire.
I, the bloated tick, slide further under the table. “What do you do, Blaire?” I cuddle my cup to my chest for security and warmth.
She swings her long black hair over her shoulder. “I’m a freelance photographer.”
“She’s fabulous, too, Robin. One of the best in Nashville.”
“My knowledge of photography starts with point and ends with click,” I say with a lilt. No one laughs. Tough crowd.
Skyler turns to Blaire. “You can shoot Robin’s publicity photos when she needs them, right?”
Blaire responds in monotone. “If she’d like.”
Very chilly Blaire breeze. What’s her problem?
“She used to be a model,” Skyler informs me.
Blaire regards Skyler with her chin in her hand as if she enjoys letting my energetic lawyer cousin talk for her.
“What made you move behind the camera?” I ask, pushing myself up in the chair.
“She got saved,” Skyler answers.
“I’m not sure the God thing took very well, but—” Blaire looks away “—I try.”
At last, common ground. “It’s a journey, like everything else. We’re not perfect, but love the One who is.”
Skyler whams the table with her hand. “See, I told you she was cool. Don’t you just love her?”
Blaire shrugs. Skyler apparently kicks her under the table or something because she winces. “I’m sure we’ll become good friends.” She offers me a half smile.
I see. She’s nervous I’ll use cousin privilege to squeeze her out. “I’m sure we will,” I say, giving her a whole, wide smile.
Skyler launches into a tale about one of her artist-clients, “Who shall be nameless but her initials are L. Y. Nothing, I mean nothing, makes her happy.”
Blaire laughs at Skyler’s imitation of the high-maintenance artist, peeks at me, and exhales a little.
In the next breath, Skyler shifts the conversation. “We should do movie night at your new apartment.” She turns to me with big eyes. “Break it in with a few chick flicks.”
“Chick flicks?” Guess my cousin doesn’t know me as well as we’d like to pretend. “I hate chick flicks. Give me Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, Mel Gibson, but no chicks, please.”
Skyler flicks her hand at me. “Blaire, meet my redneck cousin.”
Just then, a skinny dude with floppy hair and baggy jeans stumbles into the middle of the deck, his arms spread.
“She said yes! I’m engaged. Me!” He dashes from table to table. “I’m getting married!”
I peek around to see who said yes. A blushing blonde on the upper deck. Her left hand sparkles as she covers her shy laugh.
Her fiancé runs inside. “I’m engaged!” seeps through the open windows.
Blaire sighs. “Can we clone him? At least this part of him?”
He runs back out, hands on both sides of his head like he’s holding the “freak” together. “I need a song. A song. Does anyone have a song?”
Skyler bolts out of her chair. “Over here.” She dances her finger over my head.
“No, no, no, no. Skyler, what are you doing?” I grab her hand. “Sit down. I don’t have a song. I don’t even have a guitar.”
Skyler jerks her hand from mine and cups it around her mouth. “Does anyone have a guitar?”
Oh my gosh! We’re in freakin’ Nashville. Of course, someone has a guitar. If you spit into the wind, you’ll hit someone who owns a guitar.
I slide down in the chair so only my hat is showing. Surely where there’s a guitar, there’s a singer or a songwriter. Lord, please, get me off the hook. Just this once. I promise to face my fear another day. Tomorrow. I promise.
“Here,” a scruffy voice says beside me.
I peek out from under my cap to see who’s talking. It’s a wide-brim cowboy hat with a square chin.
“No, thanks. You go ahead,” I manage to whisper, though my tongue is clinging to the roof of my mouth.
The voice under the black hat croaks, “Can’t. Laryngitis.”
Of all the rotten luck. I wonder if now would be a good time to exercise my faith for healing and pray for this guy.
“Come on, cuz.” Skyler pulls me from my chair by the crook of my arm. “The lovers are waiting.”
“Graham Young,” the guitar player says, handing me a nice Yamaha. “It’s tuned.”
“Yippee.” I take the guitar. Please, Lord, right quick send a tornado or a bolt of lightning.
“Strap it on. Let’s go.” Skyler shoves me to the center of the outdoor deck.
“You always were the bossy cousin,” I mutter.
“And you were always the one with a guitar.”
Every limb trembles. Fear whispers for me to run. The deck is filling up, closing in around me, as people move out from the inside.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Skyler steps into the center of the outside deck. Blaire whistles through her fingers. Now she comes alive. “I’m happy to present to you a wonderful new songwriter in town, Robin McAfee.”
Small applause. More folks wander out. I’m sweating, profusely. And an anchor has fallen on my chest and collapsed both lungs. I’m drowning. Jesus, help. What am I doing here? I’m insane. Moving to Nashville on a whim with a gallon or two of fear, following the yellow brick road that’s haunted by my very own lions, tigers, and bears. Oh, my.
Skyler drapes her arm over my shoulder and addresses the young couple. “What’s your song?”
I pretend to do something akin to tuning, but my hands are shaking so bad I think I untuned it. Graham shoots me a scornful look.
Did I ask for this?
People are getting comfy for the show, leaning against the railing, packing every inch of free space. Terror prickles across my chest and down my arms. Another anchor drops, forcing out the last bit of my air.
“Honey,” the groom-to-be says, bending to one knee, “we don’t have a song.”
“How about ‘Love Me Tender’?” the bride-to-be suggests, gripping her hands with his.
Elvis? They want Elvis? I gaze around for the nearest escape route.
Skyler whispers, “You got any original love songs. Might as well launch your career tonight.”
I shake my head. The word “no” is trapped somewhere in my nether regions.
“What? No love songs?” She pats me on the back. “We’ll work on that.”
Help me!
Someone shouts, “‘Making Memories of Us.’”
Another: “How ’bout ‘Breathe’?”
Elvis? Keith Urban? Faith Hill? They want a cover show. They’re sadists. All of them. Cruel, cruel sadists. My hands are sweating, rusting the strings.
Skyler sticks me with her elbow. “Sing. Everyone’s waiting.”
Purple dots. I see purple dots. A third anchor slams down on me. Suddenly, there it is. A light. A thin line between a hippy and a blue-haired Goth girl. I thrust the guitar at Skyler.
And run.
Skyler barges into my ap
artment with sultry Blaire in tow. “What’s the matter with you?” She points behind her at nothing.
Birdie pops her head in the door. “Robin, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I fib with a dramatic flop down to the couch.
“You are not fine. What happened?” Skyler stares at me with her hands on her hips, tapping her toe. Birdie listens by the door, and Blaire picks at her manicured nails.
“I just didn’t feel like singing, that’s all.”
Skyler drops her hands to her side. “What? Since when? Last time I was in Freedom, your Granddaddy Lukeman shut off the porch light and locked the door to get you to end the show. Only ones listening were the dogs.”
I press my hand over my eyes. “It’s not the same thing.” I lift my head, peeking at Skyler through my fingers. From the corner of my eye, I see Birdie quietly slipping away.
“I’m terrified to sing in front of people.”
Skyler screeches, “What? Kick-butt-and-take-names Robin McAfee? Does the family know this? How can a Lukeman be scared to sing in front of people?”
“Stage fright.”
Skyler and I crane around at the sound of Blaire’s voice. “Stage fright. Happens all the time. Barbara Streisand. Donny Osmond. Judy Garland.”
“Yes, stage fright.” I waggle my finger at Blaire. “She’s right.”
“I dealt with it when I started modeling.”
“Please.” I sit forward. “How’d you get over it?”
“Picture people in their underwear,” Skyler offers.
“Good grief, no.” Blaire rolls her eyes.
Skyler bites the tip of her thumbnail, thinking. “Picture them all facing the back of the room?”
Blaire responds, “What? No. Stop guessing.”
I agree. “Right, no underwear. Blaire, what can I do?”
She sits in the club chair and crosses her long legs. “Get plenty of sleep before a performance, cut caffeine, listen to soothing music, meditate.”
“Like transcendental meditation?” Skyler wrinkles her nose.
“Well, if you’re into TM.” Blaire picks a piece of lint from her slacks.
“I’m not. What else?” I ask.
“Therapy and medication for really severe stage fright.” She studies me for a moment. “Seems you’ve got a severe case.”
“Yes,” Skyler answers for me.
Without a word, Blaire reaches down for her purse and dumps the contents. “I got herbs, vitamins, Lexapro, Zoloft . . .”
“You take all of these?” I ask, examining the pill bottles as she hands them to me. “This can’t be good, Blaire.”
Skyler takes one of the bottles. “Her last boyfriend said it’d be like raising the Titanic to find the real Blaire Kirby.”
I laugh but I stop the moment my gaze meet Blaire’s. “I’m sorry. Do you still have stage fright now that you don’t model?”
She repacks her purse. “Now I just have fright in general.”
“Oh.” I want to tell her I’ll pray for her, but the words seem inadequate. Not on Jesus’ part, but mine.
More and more, I realize fear wins when folks run and hide—or cover it with excuses. I’ll be the first to admit, it ain’t easy to press though, but dern it, I’m shining the Light on this monster under my bed.
Besides, I can’t go back on a Robin McAfee decision Skyler faces Blaire with her hands on her hips. She’s still wearing her fancy lawyer suit. “So, are you saying all Robin needs to do is meditate and drink decaf? ”
Blaire smiles. Skyler is the bright balloon tied to the end of Blaire’s lifeline. “You make it sound so simple. I’m saying she needs to find tools to help her overcome. Prayer, meditation, whatever.” She looks at me with smoky gray eyes.
I slip the Auburn hat from my head. “But mostly, I just need to get out there and sing. Face my fears.”
Skyler snatches up her purse. “Great idea. Let’s go.”
9
Skyler navigates the Music Row roundabout and swerves onto Demonbreun. She whips her Beemer into a parking slot and gets out. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” I lean over the seat.
“On the Rocks Bar & Grill.” Skyler points toward the row of red-brick restaurants and cafés.
“Why?” I want to know. “Drinking won’t solve anything.”
Skyler opens my door. “Not drinking, goof. Karaoke.”
“Oh no, nothing doing.” Sitting back, I cross my arms.
Skyler reaches in to unbuckle me. “You just admitted you need to get out there and sing. So, let’s go.”
“I didn’t mean karaoke.” I shove her hand away from the seatbelt buckle.
Blaire crawls in beside me. Now she likes me; now she wants to be my friend. “This is a good way to go, Robin. A lot of singers wanting to be artists do a little karaoke. I think Mindy McCready got her start in karaoke.”
“Nothing doing. I’m not going in there.”
“Robin, how the heck do you expect to sing at The Bluebird, the Douglas Corner Café, or The French Quarter if you can’t sing karaoke On the Rocks?”
I drop my forehead on Skyler’s headrest. “Hadn’t planned that far.”
“Time to declare war on terror.”
“But karaoke? It’s so stupid.”
“Yes, and stage fright is so smart and classy.”
I stick my tongue out at her. Snooty lawyer. I slip out of the seat belt, square my shoulders, and puff out my chest. “Let’s do it.”
Skyler, Blaire, and I stride toward On the Rocks like Charlie’s Angels, but just as we reach the door, I swoop around, head straight back to the car, and buckle myself in.
The remaining Angels scurry after me. “Robin, come on.”
“I can’t sing to a track. And look.” I point to my hat head. “I don’t have my hat. Don’t have my guitar for security . . . I can’t.”
Skyler slams my door shut and gets behind the wheel. “Come on, Blaire.”
“Where we going?” I slink down in the seat.
“Freedom.”
I lurch forward. “Alabama?”
From Skyler’s stereo, Martina sings to me that “this one’s for the girls.” “Yep. Might as well take you home since you can’t do what you came to Nashville to do.”
“You’re kidnapping me?”
“If you can’t run with the big dogs, Robin, stay on the porch. Make room for somebody else. You heard what Birdie said to her old tenant.”
“Turn around, Skyler. Take me home.”
“Freedom, here we come.” She merges on to the highway.
“No, home to Ashwood Avenue. Birdie’s.”
Skyler looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Sing karaoke.”
She ain’t the boss of me. I reach up and grab her by the hair.
“Ack! Robin, what are you doing?” Her car swerves against the white center line.
“Take me home.” I tug a little tighter while Blaire hovers against the passenger door, clutching her purse.
“No.” Skyler grips the wheel with both hands, watching the road down the slope of her nose.
“Do it.” I twist and yank again.
Skyler winces. “No.”
Blaire’s white as cotton. “Robin, she’s going to wreck. Let her go.”
“Tell her to take me home.”
Speeding down I-65, we argue. Blaire digs in her purse. “I’ll give up Zoloft if you sing at karaoke.”
I let go of Skyler. “What? Are you serious?” Finally, something interesting on the bargaining table. “Can you do that?”
Skyler rubs the back of her neck. “You pulled out all my little hairs. You’re so gonna pay for this.”
Blaire hesitates to answer, then nods. Once. “Yes.”
I’m bamboozled. “How?”
“A little at a time, yes. My doctor’s been advising me to wean myself off—”
“And me,” Skyler interjects.
“He wants me to take a milder med for awhile.”
I slou
ch against the Beemer’s leather seat. “I don’t know . . .”
“Good grief, Robin, what’s it gonna take? Do you realize what Blaire’s put on the table?”
“All right.” I sigh. “I’ll do it.”
Here’s the inherent problems with singing karaoke, in my humble opinion. People. Smoke-filled room. People. No rehearsal. People.
Even for porch singing, sometimes Granddaddy would rehearse us a little before the evening started.
By the time we walk into On the Rocks, I’m scareder than the devil at a revival meeting. My mind is frantic for an excuse to run. Blaire and her high-price offer. Shoot fire.
Skyler drops her arm over my shoulder. “We’re going to walk through those doors to a new, braver you.”
My brain tells my lips to grin, but they refuse. Isn’t it funny how God put people like Arizona and Skyler in my life for the proverbial kick in the pants?
“You know what I used to do?” Blaire says softly. “I used to pretend I was queen of the world and everyone in the room was my loyal, doting subject.”
“There you go,” Skyler says. “Think beautiful Robin McAfee.”
“Right,” I snort and finger the tangled ends of my hair.
Blaire taps her watch. “We’re wasting time. If we don’t get Robin signed up, she won’t have time to sing. The regulars will have all the spots.”
“There are regulars?” I walk with Blaire to the door, Skyler’s hand gentle on my back.
“Oh, yeah.”
On the Rocks is a wide-open place with a high, exposed beam ceiling where track lighting shoots blue and greens hues across the karaoke stage. The spacious ambiance gives me room to breathe, and I relax a little.
Blaire flashes a smile over her shoulder. “You’re going to have fun, Robin. Really. And . . . sorry I was so cold before. You know—at the Frothy Monkey.”
I smile. “No problem.”
“Really, there’s no excuse.”
I touch her arm. “We all have our moments. So, how do I go about picking a song?”
Blaire flashes me her beautiful smile and shows me how to pick a song, which I do, and jot it on a piece of paper. I hand it to the DJ, Mandy.
She looks at my choice. “LeAnn Rimes?”
“‘I Need You.’” I point to the paper.
