by Rachel Hauck
I’m sad to report there’s no Greek Tycoon as of yet, but a fellow fellow (little play on words there), Peg, and I are planning a trip to Paris in July.
Momma’s e-mailed me a lot. She writes she’s worried about you, so Robin, please go home for the Fourth.
I know you two struggle, but she does love you, and in her own quirky way, she wants to protect you. She is one strange woman when it comes to you and music, isn’t she?
Love you and miss you,
Cambridge
On a cool June afternoon, I sip bottled water on Caffeine’s deck while Skyler spends her wise advice on me.
“Don’t go with Graham just because Lee is temporarily out of commission.”
“We’re just friends. Which is more than I can say for Lee and me. We are little more than ‘how-do-I’m-fine to each other.’” I shrug. “Maybe he and his fiancée worked things out.”
“What’s their story anyway?”
“Not sure. Don’t even know who she is. All Lee said was that they broke up awhile back, but then she ran into some kind of trouble and needed him for support. Her family is in New York, and her friends are fair weather, apparently.”
“Good looking, kind, and a knight in shining armor. Man, I got to get me one of those.”
“Don’t we all.” I sip my water.
“By the way, if you get engaged to Graham, I’ll refuse to be a bridesmaid.”
I plop my bottle on the tabletop. “You’re a loon, Skyler.”
She rears back. “Excuse me, I’m merely stating my case.”
“I’m not going to marry Graham or Lee or anyone, so put your bridesmaid aspirations back in the closet.”
She defends herself with her nose in the air. “But let the record show, I warned you.”
I laugh. “Let the record show.”
“What do you see in Graham as a friend anyway? He’s slicker than a bar of soap.” Skyler reaches for the remains of The Tennessean, folded up on the table next to us.
“He’s cocky, but underneath all the garb, he’s insecure and sweet. He’s taught me a lot about songwriting. He didn’t have to take the time to write with me.” I glance at my watch. “Between his help and Kim’s, I’m braving my first ASCAP pro appointment today at two.”
“Well, if you ask me, Graham is riding on your coattails.” Skyler drops her nose closer to the paper. Her lips move as she reads. “I can’t believe it.”
“What?” I look over.
She smashes the pages together. “Oh, Robin.”
“Skyler, what?” I yank her hair. “Don’t ‘Oh, Robin’ me and not say why.”
She brushes my hand away. “Sit down.”
“I am sitting. What did you read?”
She slides the newspaper over to me and points to Brad Schmitt’s column, “Brad About You.” I read, “Appeared in court . . . Janie Leeds with her fiancé, Nashville contractor Lee Rivers . . . fight with her label over contract conditions.”
I snap up the paper and read it again. And again. There’s a photo. An adrenaline rush makes my head pound and my hands tremble. “Holy schamoly!” I crumple the pages with a glance at Skyler.
“I remember now Janie was engaged to a local Nashville contractor, but it was some kind of whirlwind romance that burned hot and fizzled fast.”
“Lee was engaged to Janie Leeds.” I gape at their picture again. My stomach curdles. Janie Leeds is beautiful. The Mary Poppins of country music—practically perfect in every way. From her stylish clothes right down to the tips of her sleek, chestnut-colored hair. In the photo, Lee is holding on to her arm, smiling as if he is in love.
“It’s an old picture, Robin. Really. I don’t think Janie’s hair is brown anymore.” Skyler glances at her watch and jumps up. “Shoot, I need to run. Are you going to be okay?”
I stand, folding up the paper. “I need to go too. ASCAP appointment . . .”
“Robin, are you going to be okay?” Skyler presses her hand on my arm.
“Of course. Gee, Sky, I spent a day and an evening with the guy.” Lee. Engaged to Janie Leeds. I follow Skyler out and stuff my water bottle, along with the balled-up newspaper, into the trash.
16
Standing in the wide-open, high-arching lobby of the ASCAP building, I grip the handle of my guitar case, trying to calm my jittery nerves.
I feel queasy, like the time I tried out for varsity basketball, knowing I couldn’t dribble worth a darn but could sink a three-pointer with my eyes closed.
Why did I think I was ready for this? Lord, if You don’t give me peace, I’m leaving.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks.
“Yes.” I quiver and step forward. “I have an appointment.” My trembling hand steadies.
I ride the elevator to Susan West’s office and unpack my guitar.
“How long have you been writing songs?” she asks.
“Ten years, maybe twelve,” I say, sitting on the edge of a chair, holding my guitar on my knee. “But I’ve only been in Nashville a month or so.”
“Do you have lyric sheets with you?”
“I do.”
She smiles as I pass them to her. She reads. I tune. My hands are shaking again.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she says with a nod.
Ready? That would be never, but I can’t sit in her office the rest of my life. “Here goes.”
My first song is “Barefoot and Free,” the military tribute to my brother.
You always loved to run barefoot and free, Now you’re laying down your life so someone else can be, And no one loves you for it more than me.
I’m half way through the chorus, settling down a little, giving myself to the lyrics, when Susan holds up her hands.
“Stop.”
I think she’s kidding, so I keep on singing right into verse two.
She slaps her hand against the top of the guitar. “Stop, Robin. Stop.”
Verse two fades away. I gape at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. The song doesn’t do anything for me. Go on to the next.”
Uh? “O-okay.” Hard to go on breathing with a bullet fired into the ole ticker.
I muddle through two more songs, “Rosalie” and “Give My Life,” while my confidence leaks all over. Susan stops me halfway through each one.
“Nice melody, but I’m not getting the song. The lyrics seem too simple.”
“Perhaps sophomoric?”
“Perhaps.”
“Okay.” I start to pack up, wrestling with discouragement. Maybe I should’ve sung “Country Princess.” But if Graham called it sophomoric, what would Susan call it? Besides, Graham said, “Try new stuff.”
So I did. Poo to you, Graham.
“Come back when you have three to five new songs.”
“Three to five new songs?” Tears threaten to betray me.
Walking out to my truck, I let the waterworks loose. “Who am I kidding?” I mutter. “I can’t do this.”
I find Graham in the NSAI meeting room. It’s a large, angled-wall room with low lighting, wood trim, and the same gleaming wood floors as the rest of the building.
He’s talking to Frank Gruey and another man dressed in holey jeans (must be a songwriter) and a plaid button-down. He’s nice looking, a fiftyish gent with squinty eyes and round cheeks.
Frank looks up. “Can I help you?”
His tone makes me feel small. “I’m here to meet with Graham.”
Graham addresses me with his hands in his pockets and one foot jutted forward like he’s posing for a picture. “What do you need, Robin?”
“We have an appointment.” Don’t treat me like I’m a snot-nosed kid.
He turns to the man in the jeans. “Robin’s new in town. I’m tutoring her in songwriting.” Graham sighs like I’m quite the burden.
Then Frank slaps him on the back. “We’re going to grab a bite at Noshville Deli. Why don’t you join us?”
Graham nods with a sly smile. “Love to.” He lo
oks over at me. “Robin, you remember Frank Gruey? And this is Danny Hayes. He just got a cut with Kristin Waters.”
I shake their hands. “Congratulations, Danny.”
Frank looks at his watch with an exaggerated swing of his arm. “Better get going, Danny. Graham, you coming?”
“Right behind you.” The man in the black duster picks up his guitar and follows Frank and Danny down the hallway.
“Graham?” I catch him before he reaches the door. “You’re walking out on me?” Besides writing, I wanted to whine about my ASCAP critique from yesterday.
He stops at the door. “This is important. Very.”
“I see.”
“So, hang tight, all right?”
I snort my hot breath over him. “Hang tight? I don’t like being treated like I’m toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe.”
“Toilet paper.” He laughs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”
“My ASCAP appointment didn’t go so well,” I blurt.
“What’d she say?”
“Come back when I have three to five new songs.”
Graham shoves open the door. “Then write three to five new songs.” He leans forward and pops a quick kiss on my cheek. “Let’s catch up later, okay?”
I rear back and watch him walk away, rubbing his wet kiss from my cheek.
In Writing Room number one, I plop down in an earth-toned chair, stare at the white walls, and dig the heels of my boots in the green carpet. Birdie’s right. This business ain’t for the weakhearted.
The sting of Graham walking out on me lingers. “I’ll show you, Graham Young.” I pop open my guitar case. “And Lee Rivers. Dating Janie Leeds. And Miss I-don’t-get-your-songs Susan West.”
Sitting at the piano, I tune my guitar as my eyes water, wondering if the fallow ground of disappointment and rejection is where hit songs are reaped. If so, I’m due for a doozy.
In the midst a good pout, my cell phone rings. I hope it’s Graham with a big fat apology.
“Hey, it’s Ricky.”
“Hey—” My voice breaks.
“You okay?”
I sink down to the love seat and prop my guitar against the cushion. “I’ve had better days.”
“You haven’t called.”
Tears seep from the corners of my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“How’s songwriting?”
I shrug and pick at a small hole forming in the knee of my jeans. “Apparently, I’m not as good as I thought.”
“Come home, Robin.” His nudge is wrapped with a ribbon of longing.
Go home? “Today, that sounds pretty good, Rick, but I’ve barely started here.”
“Come on, I’m sure Chancy would rehire you.”
I chuckle through my sniffles. “The Tums people would be back in business.”
He laughs low. “I’d give you another chance too.”
My heart thumps. Go home. Marry Ricky. Forget writing for the Row. What made me think I could fit in here anyway? “I don’t know . . .” I pace back to the piano.
“Please, baby, think about it.”
I hit middle C. The single clear tone fills the room. “Ricky, I—”
“Don’t say yes or no. I’m on my way to pick up a car with Mitch, so just think about it, okay? Pray. I love you.”
I press End and throw my phone against the chair. Today, he calls. Of all days. Lord, did I miss you or something? Take a wrong turn and end up here?
Shutting the writing room door, I wonder if Craig Wiseman works up his hit songs this way. Sure feels like I’m living like I was dying. Pieces of me are anyway.
I cry a little, praying, asking for wisdom. Then I hear Granddaddy’s voice echoing from the deep recess of my pea brain. “If you go through life looking over your shoulder, you’ll wreck for sure.”
A small snicker starts in my belly and builds to a laugh. “Thanks, Granddaddy.”
For the rest of the afternoon, I sing away my blues, pouring out my soul to the One who holds my destiny in His hand.
In my kitchen I pull hamburger meat from the crisper and mold it into patties. My heart has healed from the stink of the day, but I’m drained.
Between Graham, Ricky, and Susan West; getting up early for work; staying up late for workshops and songwriter’s nights; and spending my afternoons digging around the depths of my soul for the next Trisha Yearwood hit, I’m plumb worn out.
Plopping the hamburgers onto a plate, I wonder again if moving to Nashville really was a bad idea. Maybe I should go home and marry Ricky.
My cell phone rings as I mold the last patty. “Shoot.” My hands are coated with hamburger meat. But maybe this time it is Graham with a fat apology. Or Ricky with a never mind.
I wipe my hands and dig in my purse for my phone.
“Robin, it’s Marc.”
“What’s up, boss?” I cradle the tiny phone against my cheek and open the bottom cupboard for Grandma’s old cast-iron frying pan.
“Don’t forget Nashville Noise. Five a.m.” The offices of the great record label is Marc’s newest and biggest account.
“Marc, I know my schedule.”
“Marty is assigned to the job too.” He has this annoying habit of repeating himself.
“We know.” I arrange the hamburgers in the skillet, and it dawns on me—I made too many. I can’t eat three hamburgers tonight.
“Be professional.” Marc is rushed and hyper. “They’re behind on a recording project, so they’ll be in the studios at odd hours. Be careful and be quiet. Keep a sharp eye out.”
“Keep a sharp eye out? For what, an emergency trash emptying?”
“I want you to take this job seriously, Robin.”
The sound and smell of sizzling meat rises in the kitchen. “Gee, Marc, and we were planning to toilet paper Mr. Chastain’s office.”
“What!”
“You know, you have no sense of humor. Why are you so worked up over this job?”
He hesitates. “James Chastain and I hit it off. He might take a listen to some of my songs.” His words are jammed together like county fair bumper cars.
“Just like that?” I grab a spatula from the drawer. Marc’s story seems rather bizzare. Hey, Marc, I like your cleaning company. Let me hear a few of your songs. It doesn’t sound like the reputed hard-nosed James Chastain. He once made a songwriter work three years before signing him to a deal, because he thought the guy wasn’t ready.
“It’s NashVegas, Robin. Anything can happen.” Marc’s tone has a woo-wee tingle. Like he’d just won a round of Texas Hold ’Em.
I half-decide Marc is dreaming, half-decide I want a sip of whatever he’s drinking. “Don’t worry, we’ll do a good job. And keep a sharp eye out.” I can’t help it, I had to repeat it.
Marc clears his throat and says, in a low, hurried voice, “Just do the good job you always do.”
“Ah, sweet. A left-handed compliment.” With a final goodbye, I flip my phone closed and head back to the kitchen.
I’m up to my eyeballs with insults: Susan telling me my songs aren’t hits, Graham dumping me for someone he considers more important, and Ricky insinuating I’m crazy for leaving home. But by-gum, Marc, don’t challenge my ability to clean a toilet and dump the trash.
I slap the counter with the spatula.
“Robin, you home?” Birdie calls through my door with a light knock.
I whirl around. “Yeah, it’s open.”
A peaceful feeling washes over me when her pretty face peers around my yellow door. “Smells good in here.”
“Please, come in and eat a burger with me.”
“If your frying them, I’m eating.” She walks over to the counter. “I heard something about you today.”
“Me?” I glance up from where I’m pouring frozen fries onto a cookie sheet.
“Walt and I met with Eric Exley to talk about a project he’s producing.” Birdie comes into the kitchen and starts hunting through the cupboards.
�
��I assume this is a good thing.” I open the freezer and toss the bag of fries back in. “Birdie, what are you looking for?”
“Plates.”
I point to the cupboard by the door.
“Well, every time Walt ran into Eric, he’d tease him, ‘Put my name on it.’” She laughs.
“I don’t get it.”
“You know, darling, if Eric wrote a great song, credit Walt as the writer.”
“Ah, right.” I grin. “Put my name on it. Clever.”
“Well, it’s just a saying, but Eric finally told Walt, ‘Let’s put your name on something.’” Birdie finds the plates and pulls down two. “Walt invited me along, and there we are, eating and talking, when this A&R rep Eric knows stops by our table. Honey, if you want to run into someone important, go to the Green Hills Bread & Company.”
“I heard Keith Urban goes there.”
“The A&R rep has a songwriting son who sang at the Bluebird the same night as you a few weeks ago.”
I make a face as I slip the cookie sheet of fries into the oven. “No kidding. Do you remember his name?”
Birdie shook her head. “The dad is Pete Jewel, but can’t remember the son’s. Pete, of course, went to the ’Bird to hear his boy and found the songs by this vulnerable little redhead very captivating.”
I look up at her. “Me?”
“He said you were shaky and uncomfortable, but your songs were so pure, from the heart.” Birdie hands me the plates and picks up the spatula. “‘Genius’ is the word he used.”
I gape at her, cradling the plates to my chest. “You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
While setting the table, I give Birdie the low-down on my week. “Skyler reads in ‘Brad About You’ that Lee was engaged, or is engaged, to Janie Leeds. Then I go to my ASCAP pro appointment only to be told to come back when I have three to five new songs. And today, Graham walks out on me to have lunch with Frank Gruey and Danny Hayes, whoever they are—”
“Not sure about Frank, but Danny is a fabulous songwriter. Been down on his luck though until this recent cut with Kristin Waters.”
I pull forks and knives from a drawer. “Right, so there you go. Graham goes off with them, and while I pout in one of the writer’s rooms, my boyfriend, or sorta-boyfriend, calls asking me to come home. I sat in the writing room and cried. Didn’t write one genius word.”
