by Rachel Hauck
“This is my surprise? A trip to the Hall of Fame?” I ask, walking along the side of the great building.
“Yep, this is it. Your destiny.”
I bump him with my shoulder. “Right.” A quote etched in one of the foundation stones stops me. “‘A good country song takes a page out of somebody’s life and puts it to music. Conway Twitty.’”
Lee wraps his arms around me and reads another quote over my shoulder. “‘Country music isn’t a guitar, it isn’t a banjo, it isn’t a melody, it isn’t a lyric. It’s a feeling. Waylon Jennings.’”
“Those are the types of songs I want to write, adding in a dash of God’s true love and hope.”
“You will,” Lee says, and leads me inside the Hall, where he buys two tickets. Together we journey through the history of the world’s best music.
“Imagine how it must feel to play music of your heart and soul,” I say, reading an exhibit about the Carter family. “Then have it shape a generation.”
“Pretty amazing.” Lee gazes down at me. “Just think—one day, it’ll be you.”
I peer into his eyes to see if he’s teasing, figuring a man might say sweet-nothings to a girl he’s wooing. “Do you know something I don’t know?”
“Yes, you’re special.” Lee takes my hand. “After being around Janie and people in the business, I can recognize the will-bes from the wannabes.”
“And I’m a will-be?”
He nods. “The day I met you at Birdie’s, I knew you were different.”
“Like a freak-of-nature different, or what?”
“No.” He laughs and shuffles me off to the next display. “You’re like a cool breeze in a stale, hot room. A budding rose in the desert.”
“Budding rose in the desert. Very nice.” I tug my notebook from my pocket. Cool breeze . . . budding rose . . . “Maybe you should be the songwriter.”
“Can’t sing, can’t rhyme, can’t play.” He bends down as if he’s going to kiss me, but doesn’t. Since the night on Birdie’s porch, we’ve hung out a dozen times, But still no taste of his lips.
“I sure hope you’re right.” I slip my notebook back into my pocket, then wrap my arm around his waist and lean against him as we walk past the black-and-white exhibit of the early Opry days.
“Do you want to be in the Hall someday?”
I glance around. “I thought I was in the Hall.”
“Ha, funny girl, you know what I mean.”
Facing a picture of DeFord Bailey posing with his harmonica, I confess. “I reckon none of these folks played music with the idea of being famous in mind. They just did what they loved. That’s what I want to do—and stand before God confident I used the gift He gave me. If I go on to do something grand like impacting a generation with my songs, that’s His business.”
“See, that’s why you’re different. Fame is not important to you,” Lee says, adding a whistle as we come up on a gold Cadillac. “Can you picture Elvis behind the wheel?” He stoops to see inside the legend’s gold-plated car.
“Too rico for me.” My eye catches the display of well-played, well-worn guitars, and I move on.
We finish the early-history side and mosey around to the present-day side. There’s a whole showcase devoted to Nashville Noise and the legendary James Chastain.
“Lee, here’s a picture of Birdie. And my momma.” I tap the Plexiglas, squinting. Momma will faint when I tell her the original photo of the Nashville Noise artists is in the Hall.
Lee props his hands on his knees. He looks at me, then back at the picture. “Who’s this, now?” He wrinkles his forehead.
“See the woman with the dark curls and enormous smile? Right there next to James Chastain? That’s my momma.”
Lee stares at the infamous image, glances back at me, then at the photo again. “That’s your mom next to James Chastain?”
“Yep.”
“Have you met him?” Lee straightens up and rests his elbow on my head.
I squirm out from under the weight of his arm. “Oh, sure, I stop in his office every morning for tea and cakes right after I clean his toilets.”
“He strikes me as more of a coffee-and-donuts kind of guy.” Lee ganders at the picture one more time. Then, I don’t know, loses his mind or something because he sticks his wet finger in my ear.
I yelp and jerk away. “What are you doing? You can’t give me a wet willy.” I rub my ear, then snatch his hand and bend back his wrist. “What’s wrong with you?”
His expression is one of Who, me?
I release him. “Wipe that look off your face, you don’t fool me. Let’s move on, and keep your hands to yourself.”
Next is the Dolly Parton and Porter Wagner exhibit. One of Dolly’s original outfits hangs behind the glass. “Lee, look how tiny she was.”
“Yeah, tiny. Not the word I’d use, but hey . . .” He attempts another wet willy.
I slap his hand away. “Stop.” I hunch up my shoulders to protect my ears and hurry to the next exhibit.
Lee saunters up behind me. “What’s this Chastain guy’s relationship to your family?”
I feel his hand slip over my shoulder. I walk away. “He discovered Momma and signed her as one of his new artists.” A wet finger touches my ear.
I whirl around and pop him on the arm. “Did you treat Janie this way? Sheez.”
“She’s less of a sport than you.”
“Cut it out or I’ll take you down.”
He gawks at me. “You and who else?”
In one smooth move, I swing my foot around with all the weight of my five-foot-four body (it’s my one ka-ra-tay move) and cut Lee off at the ankles. He hits the floor right on his sass. I stand over him. “Don’t need anyone else.”
He guffaws and hops up. “Oh, it’s on now, missy.”
“Ack!” I skedaddle toward the stairs and jigger down to the main floor with Lee skeddaddling after me.
Once we’re outside in the September sun, Lee swoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder, smacking my rump.
“Help!” I scream and kick. “Help!”
“Quiet down. People will think you’re serious.”
“I am serious.” I pinch his derriere.
He leaps forward as if he can actually get away from my pinchers. But where he goes, I go, dangling down his back like a sack of feed.
“Hey, no touching that . . . area.”
“You slapped mine.”
He jogs across Broadway at the light and heads up Fifth. “All right, new rule: hands off.” He sets me down and wags his finger at me. “No touching . . . for any reason.”
I stick out my hand. “Deal.”
He shakes. “Deal.” But he doesn’t let go of my hand. “Robin, I do want to kiss you.” His voice is husky.
All the noise of downtown Nashville fades. I can only hear, see, think, feel one word: kiss. “Who’s stopping you?”
He dips his head and kisses me, intensely and passionately, wrapping his arms around my back. It’s not a Ricky-kiss where I feel part wanted and part slimed.
When he releases me an “Oh, man,” rushes from my soul. His lips taste like I’d hoped. Firm but sweet.
“Oh, man?” He brushes his hand over my hair. “Is that good?”
“It ain’t bad.” I rest my forehead against his broad chest, catching my breath.
Without asking this time, he kisses me again. “You really are amazing, Robin. And beautiful.” The sun is behind him, casting his shadow over me.
Holy molie. Can’t. Breathe. Lee is the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time in the man department, but his actions . . . today . . . in downtown Nashville knock me off kilter.
He chuckles and steps back. “I’ve been trying to figure out how and when to kiss you and—”
“I liked the kiss. And what better place than across from the Hall of Fame?”
He laughs. “How about ice cream to seal the deal?”
“Not McDonald’s again.”
“Nope
, something better.”
Dubious of his ice cream expertise, I follow Lee to Dixieland Delights, where he buys a couple of cones with two scoops of chocolate.
“Now this is good ice cream,” I say, wandering downtown with him. We look in shop windows, sharing our favorite summertime memories.
I pause outside Gruhn Guitars and peer through the window. “One of these days, I’m going to walk in there and say, ‘Give me the best you got.’”
“I’m sure you will.” Lee bites into his cone.
Walking on, we stop in at Tootsie’s for a short listen to the band while I finish my ice cream.
The sun is sinking beneath the skyline as we walk back to Lee’s truck. I decide we need a song. About Lee. I hum a little tune. “Lee, Lee with your eyes so green . . .”
“They’re blue.” He pops his eyes open wide.
“Is this your song?” I continue my impromptu lyrics. “You’ve got the biggest teeth I’ve ever seen.”
“Ah, now, that’s plain evil.” He stretches his lips to cover his teeth.
I laugh and fish for my next line while walking backward in front of him. He steers out of the path of a couple pushing a stroller. “And I’m the luckiest girl, to have you in my world.”
He nods. “I like it. Keep singing.”
We round the corner of the Hall and head for the parking lot. “So, I’ll keep you around, just for awhile, as long as you buy me ice-cream cones from Dixieland Delights.”
He tips back his head and laughs. “Ladies and gentleman, you heard it here. Nashville’s next hit song. Call the publishers. Call Martina, Faith, Trisha, and Carrie.”
I walk on without him. “You’re overworking it, Rivers.”
He jogs up behind me, still laughing. We laugh a lot, Lee and I.
“So, what happened to your mom’s deal with Nashville Noise?” he asks after we climb in the truck and buckle up.
“Apparently some guy broke her heart,and she went back home.” I wipe my hands with an Armor All wipe.
“Who broke her heart?”
I shrug. “She didn’t tell me.”
“Robin,” Lee starts, making his way toward home, his expression pinched, his tone serious, “do you think—”
My cell rings. “Hold that thought.” I answer.
“Are you listening to Big 98?” Skyler blurts when I answer.
“No.” I turn on Lee’s radio. “Why are you screaming?”
“Robin, they’re playing ‘Your Country Princess.’”
24
We gather in Birdie’s living room. Skyler, Walt, Lee, and me. I’m trembling, pacing, fretting. Great day in the morning. A veteran country artist, Emma Rice, recorded “Your Country Princess.” How? When? Who?
“Robin, who’s heard ‘Your Country Princess’?” Birdie asks. “Anyone for some iced tea?”
When in crisis, please, serve up some sweet cold tea.
“I don’t know, Birdie, I mean, I’ve sung it at a few open-mike nights. But it’s been awhile.”
“Did you give a work tape to anyone? A lyric sheet?” Walt takes over the questioning while Birdie runs to the kitchen.
“No, I haven’t made a work tape, and the lyric sheet is in my guitar case. Graham helped me rework the song a little back in May when I first came to town, but—” Ah, hold it. I wince. “Marty and I sang the song in Studio A at Nashville Noise. Just goofing around, you know.”
Walt stood, his eyebrows crinkled together. “Were they in session?”
I crack my knuckles. “Yes, sorta. I think they’d taken a break.”
Walt lowers his chin. “Robin, your goofing-off could’ve been recorded.”
“Are you serious? There wasn’t anyone around. Well, we did hear a noise . . .”
Skyler walks in the middle of us, waving her hands. “This is pointless. You can’t sue. It would be your word against the songwriter and all of the Emma Rice camp. She’s making a comeback with SongTunes, and they aren’t going to take a challenge lightly. I’ve butted with their lawyers before. Not pretty.”
“But I am the songwriter, Skyler,” I wail.
“Correction,” Walt says. “Were the songwriter.”
I sink to the ottoman. “You’re right.” My mouth is dryer than dirt. “Lee, do you know anything about this?”
He stiffens. “How would I know?”
“Well, you know Music Row people. Did you tell Janie—”
“No, Robin. I can’t believe you’d even think such a thing. I heard the song once. Until today, I didn’t even remember it.” His stance is stiff.
“Stop.” Skyler steps between us. “We can find out who the writer is without accusing people.” She looks at me and whispers, “What’s wrong with you?”
Walt suggests buying Emma’s CD. “That’d answer our question of who wrote the song.”
“We could run down to Davis-Kidd and buy it.” I jump up with a glance around the room.
Skyler shakes her head. “Her CD’s not out yet. I read in Music Row that it comes out next month. This song is her first single release.”
Birdie hustles in with a tray of teas. “Here we go.”
Walt pats my shoulder. “We’ll find the writer before then, Robin. Enough of us in this room have Music Row connections. Right, Birdie? Robin?” He takes a glass of tea from Birdie, but doesn’t take a sip.
“Right.”
“Sure, shug, we’ll find out.” Birdie hands me a tall tea.
I smile at Walt. He’s trying to be the calm, fatherly one. “Guess you’re right, Walt. Thanks.”
“Don’t let this get you down now,” he says, sitting next to me on the ottoman, patting my arm. “It ain’t the end of the world.”
“Right, just my first country cut and no one knows it.” Who betrayed me? Marc Lewis? If the song did get recorded in the Nashville Noise studio, did James Chastain get a hold of it? Did they think it was a demo for one of Marc’s songs?
Then there’s the mysterious disappearance of one Marty Shultz, who says she was too old and too tired for a comeback. But perhaps it was all a ruse.
And not to be forgotten, the charming and schmoozing Graham Young, working deals with Frank Gruey and Danny Hayes. But he doesn’t need my song, and I seriously doubt he’s a backstabbing, low-down, song-stealing kind of guy.
I drop my head to my hands. Perhaps it was the butler in the kitchen with the candlestick. I’m clueless.
Skyler addresses Walt. “Do you know anyone in Emma’s camp?”
He juts out his chin. “I have connections with SongTunes. I could give them a call tomorrow, ask around.”
“Be careful, Walt. Don’t let on it was stolen. They’ll—” Skyler pops her hands together. “The Internet. Robin, we can look on Emma’s Web site. Maybe there’s a blurb about the songs, why she recorded them, who wrote it, blah, blah.”
“Great idea.” Birdie leads the way to her little office off the living room.
In no time, Skyler finds Emma’s Web site. Sure enough, there’s a whole gob of stuff dedicated to her new release, Gentlemen Beware.
The six of us hover around Birdie’s twelve-inch laptop. Lee stands off to the side, watching and waiting. I gaze over at him. He arches his brows at me.
Skyler clicks through the web pages. “At least the thief had presence of mind to retitle the song. Emma’s cut is ‘I Wanna Be.’” She sighs and falls against the back of the chair. “You can listen to an MP3, but no lyrics or songwriters.”
Can I cry? Better yet, can I punch someone? Emma Rice is singing my song, and she doesn’t even know I’m alive.
I barge into the NSAI offices Monday afternoon and knock on the membership manager’s door. “Jack, do you know who wrote Emma’s new cut, ‘I Wanna Be’?”
He frowns. “No. Why?”
“My song, ‘Your Country Princess’—” Oh forget it. It’s too tall a tale for even me to believe.
In the meeting room, several songwriters gather for a morning conference. Most of them are fro
m out of town, so fifty bucks says they don’t know who wrote Emma’s new single either.
This is crazy. Who tossed a lasso at the moon with my song and landed an Emma Rice cut?
Skyler buzzes me on my cell. “I’ve called around. Left messages. So far, nothing. I checked with Chris Oglesby at Oglesby Songwriting Management. He said he’ll get back to me.”
I sigh. “Thanks, Sky.”
“How are you?”
I pause. Yeah, how am I? Frustrated. Angry. “I’m fine. Call if you get any news.” I flip my phone shut and wander into the computer room.
Is this situation really all that bad? So Emma Rice is belting out my song and doesn’t know it. The Lord knows I’m the writer, and isn’t that all that matters? It should be.
Right. Tell it to my pride. And my pocketbook. I plop my forehead down on the table. “This is rotten.” But my cell rings again before I can swim too far out in the pity pool. When I go to answer, I see it’s Arizona.
She screams. “The whole town is going nuts. Buttons popping all over the place.”
“W-what are you talking about?” I can feel the blood draining from my face.
“Emma Rice recorded ‘Your Country Princess.’” She screams again.
Oh my gosh.
“So, how’d it happen? Brilliant plan to surprise us. Scaredy-cat Robin McAfee moves to Nashville and sells her first song before the summer is out. Oh girl, you showed those naysayers. Sounds like Emma changed the chorus a lot, but I suppose they do that sort of thing. But, what a fabulous voice. A great comeback song. She’s going to owe you big. Did you go to the studio when she recorded it? Robin, I’m shaking, and it’s not even my song. How’d you keep it a secret—”
“Arizona, stop. I didn’t sell the song.”
“Huh? What do you mean? Emma wrote a song like yours?”
“No, someone sold it to her without my permission.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Who in all God’s creation would stoop so low?”
“You tell me.”
She sucks in a deep breath. “Oh, Robin . . .”
“Arizona, please, I’m begging you, do what you can to squelch the town celebration. Please.”
