Lost in NashVegas

by Rachel Hauck

  “I’ll do what I can, but gee, Robin, if I act like it’s no big deal, they’ll think I’ve gone over to the Dark Side. I’m your best friend. And the whole town remembers the night you finally made it center stage with ‘Your Country Princess.’”

  Trapped in my own triumph. “You think Jude Perry will print a big headline in Freedom Rings! above the fold?”

  “Probably.”

  We hang up, and I scurry into the computer room to send Jude an e-mail. I roam around on the web until I find the Freedom Rings! web page and an e-mail link to Jude.

  Dear Jude,

  Please, please don’t print a story or a headline or even a one-sentence congrats on the “Around Town” page about “Your Country Princess” being on the radio. It’s a long, long story, and some day I promise to give you the scoop. But please, not one word. I’m begging you!!! Please.

  Your friend, Robin McAfee

  When I click Send, my stomach goes kerplunk. “Lord, let Jude get this before press time.”

  As Jude’s e-mail zips through cyberspace, I see several messages from Eliza. It’s been awhile since I checked e-mail, apparently. Her first one is from August.

  I click on the subject line: Keith Urban. Smiling, I read.

  NashVegas,

  You dog! I can’t believe it. You actually talked to him? And hugged him? For me? I’m moving to Nashville when I graduate.

  I love Shakespeare, but our professor is v. boring.

  Love you,

  Cambridge.

  There’s a second one, dated the first week of September. The subject line reads: Sweet Home, Alabama.

  Dear NashVegas,

  I’m so glad to be home! The Alabama air never smelled sweeter. Europe was great, Cambridge a blast, but there’s no place like the hills of Freedom. Or Auburn’s campus.

  I hope you’re sitting down for this, but my friend Chelle talked me into getting football tickets, so guess what I’m doing every Saturday? Yep, sitting in the stands, watching football. It’s fun if you’re into really cute frat men sloshing beer all over you.

  We’ve been in class for a few weeks already. I got home from Cambridge and hit the ground running, though I managed a short weekend home. Momma told me about Nashville Noise. I fell out. Our Momma, a signed artist with Nashville Noise? No way. You must’ve freaked when you saw her picture. And, she’s the background voice on Grace Harding’s biggest hit?Unbelievable. But ya know, it explains her pinched face when it came to you and music, doesn’t it?

  I’m not into school this semester after the summer of studying, but I’m so close to graduating, I grit my teeth and forge ahead.

  Oh, guess what, I’m tutoring one of the football players, Joel Hawk. Knowing him makes the games a little more exciting. He’s one of those big muscle guys who tackles or runs around behind the quarterback.

  He’s cute in a no-neck, obtuse sort of way. And oddly enough, more interesting than my Shakespeare prof when he talks football. Thees and thous versus x’s and o’s? I like x’s and o’s.

  Paris rendered no Greek Tycoon, or any man remotely close. I’d have settled for a handsome Englishman with a lot of credit on his MasterCard, but alas, ’twas not meant to be.

  I miss you! Momma tells me you’re singing at a Bluebird Songwriter’s Night, so I’ll be there.

  Love,

  Back at Auburn

  P.S. Anymore K.U. sightings?

  Think he’ll be at the Bluebird

  when you’re there?

  I laugh out loud at her P.S. Yeah, Liza, Keith will be there. We’re tight now, you know. Best buds.

  But Eliza’s insight on her summer of Shakespeare reminds me life doesn’t always turn out like we expect, but we go on living anyway. As long as Jude gets my e-mail and complies, I can live with Freedom folks thinking my song is a hit. Right? Right.

  I click Reply and type Eliza a short note.

  Back at Auburn,

  I’m glad you’re home, safe. I’ve missed you. Lots going on around here. I’ll have to call you. Great for Chelle to get your nose out of the books and have fun with life. Sorry about Shakespeare and the Greek tycoon.

  No more run-ins with K.U. And are you crazy? He will NOT be at my Bluebird night. Even if hell froze over. If he wanted to come, I would beg him to stay away. I’ll be nervous enough as it is with you guys in the audience.

  See you soon. Love you,

  Nashville

  I click Send and am ready to exit Yahoo when a new e-mail arrives from Eliza. Subject line reads: !!!!!!!!!!!

  Ahhhhhhh!!! I just heard Emma Rice’s new single. Oh my gosh! Why didn’t you tell us? Details. I’m on my way to class, but call me or e-mail or something. I can’t believe it!

  So, the frenzy has started. I click out of Yahoo. I don’t have the energy to respond. Walking out to the foyer, I hear Graham at the front desk, talking to Ella.

  “We can grab a bite to eat, maybe—” He looks over at me and stands straight.

  He seems guarded, but he’s been that way all summer.

  “Robin. What’s up?” He winks at Ella though he’s talking to me. What is wrong with him these days?

  “Did you hear Emma Rice’s new cut?”

  He props his elbow on the top shelf of the reception desk and leans toward Ella. “I’ve been busy. What’s up with her new cut?”

  “She’s singing ‘Your Country Princess,’ although she titled it ‘I Wanna Be.’”

  He drops his chin to his chest and tugs his hat over his eyes. “She’s singing your ‘Your Country Princess’?”

  “Do you know of another? Yes, my ‘Your Country Princess.’ Graham, I didn’t sell the song to Emma.” I slap my hands on my hips, waiting for him to turn livid. “Someone stole it.”

  He laughs and fiddles with the NSAI newsletter on Ella’s desk. “Sure, someone stole it. Robin, come on. Who would steal your song?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know, Graham.” I moan. “Emma Rice doesn’t even know I’m alive, and she’s belting out my song. The chorus is different, but the rest is exactly my lyrics and melody.”

  Graham stoops to pick up his guitar. “You mean to tell me someone sold her a song exactly like yours.” He makes a kissy face at Ella. “Well, they say there’s nothing new under the sun. Like ideas are all over the place. Hanging in the air.”

  “Are you saying someone had the same idea as me?”

  Graham throws his arm around me and walks me to the basement stairs. “It’s possible.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Stranger things have happened.” He stops outside Writers Room number two. “Listen, I have an appointment with a new writer in a few minutes.”

  Crossing my arms, I lean against the doorframe. “Do you know who wrote the song? Or, who’s credited with writing the song?”

  He tunes his guitar. “Robin, if I were you, I’d put the button on saying Emma Rice is singing your stolen song. Ain’t no better way to make an enemy.”

  Crud. I flop down on the love seat and cover my eyes with my arm. “What should I do?”

  Graham tunes his guitar. “Move on, Robin. Forget about the song. It’s too late.”

  “Easy for you to say. Emma Rice is not making a comeback singing your sophomoric lyrics over the airwaves.”

  “She’s not singing yours either. Better decide that right now.” He stays focused on retuning the top E string.

  “You’re right—” Outside the door is a light knock.

  “Phoebe, come in.” Graham greets her with a blinding smile.

  Phoebe’s hips sway as she enters. “Thank you for meeting with me. I’m sooo excited.”

  “Phoebe, this is Robin McAfee.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she gushes, her contact-lens blue eyes stuck on Graham.

  “See ya, Robin.” Graham pulls me off the sofa and shoves me out the door.

  Skyler calls later for an emergency latté at Caffeine’s. “Did you talk to Marc?” she asks, digging in her Prada bag for chan
ge. “I haven’t had time to get anywhere with your song.”

  Not finding another quarter to pay for her mocha, Skyler dumps her purse contents on the counter. Dollar bills hit the counter and float to the floor.

  “Good grief, it’s a Prada junkyard,” I say, stooping to pick up two fifties. “Granddaddy always said you can find valuable things at a junkyard.”

  “I was in such a rush when I stopped by the bank.”

  “I hope you don’t organize your cases like you do your purse, Sky.”

  “My cases are why my purse is like this. So, did you talk to Marc?” She hands Reuben, the guy behind the counter, a fifty.

  “He laughed and said if he was going to steal a song, it wouldn’t be from me.”

  “Smart aleck.” Skyler scrapes the junk back in her purse.

  “Hi, Robin,” Reuben says, “what’ll it be?”

  “A White Chocolate Symphony, please.” I help Skyler lighten her load by scooping up all the loose change. “You still owe me ten dollars.”

  “Fine, here, take this too.” She flips me one of the fifties. “Happy—” She glances at her watch. “Happy September twelfth.”

  “And to you, cuz.” I wave the bill at her. “I’m not too proud to take it.”

  “Robin, when do you play here again?” Reuben asks. “We have a lot of requests for the nervous songwriter chick.”

  Great, I’m getting a rep. “I’m on the schedule for sometime in November, after my songwriter’s night at the Bluebird.”

  He takes the mountain of change from my hand and pops open the register. “It’s sorta nerve-racking, isn’t it?”

  “Sorta?”

  “Say, Reuben,” Skyler says, “have you heard about Emma Rice’s new single? Maybe who wrote it?”

  He looks over from where he’s blending my Symphony. “No, why?”

  Skyler shrugs. “Just wondering. Her new release is really good—‘I Wanna Be.

  ’”

  Reuben passes over my drink. “Not really into Emma Rice. She’s more like my mom’s generation.”

  “Fine.” Skyler rolls her eyes and snatches a couple of napkins from the dispenser.

  I laugh. “Thanks, Reuben.”

  We sit outside for a few minutes in the warm September sun.

  “I saw Graham in the NSAI office a half hour ago. He advised me to let it go. Don’t sully my name accusing Emma Rice.”

  Skyler sips her latté. “I hate to agree with him, but he’s right. By the way, how’d he seem? Nervous? Suspicious?”

  “Neither. He flirted with the receptionist, Ella, then shoved me out the door when his cowrite showed up. A cute chick with big blue eyes. I bet she’s never written a song before today.”

  Skyler smirks. “Probably not even today.” She closes her eyes and turns her face into the breeze. Her sleek dark hair flutters over her shoulders. “When I get back to the office, I’ll dig around some more.” With a sigh, she shoves out of her chair. “I need to run. No time for leisurely coffee breaks these days.”

  “Thanks for all you’re doing to help.”

  “You’d do the same for me,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks toward her car. “Besides, you’ll get my bill.”

  25

  “So, you’re back.” Susan West motions for me to take a seat.

  “I am.” I perch on the edge of her sofa, my confidence already leaking.

  She leans forward with her elbows on her knees. “Do you like what you’ve written?”

  I look up from tuning my guitar. “Y-yes.” If I can’t feel confident, it’d be nice to at least sound confident. But no.

  It’s been a week since I heard my song on the Big 98. I’ve worked hard to put it behind me, go on with my songwriting, forgetting I could’ve been accredited with a hit. But the irony of sitting in Susan’s office for a pro critique while my song has Music Row buzzing burns my buns.

  Susan says, “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Okay.” With my hands trembling, my mouth dry, and my hopes on hiatus, I start my first song, “She Was Seventeen. ” To my surprise, Susan lets me sing it all the way through.

  “Better,” she says, smiling and nodding. “Much better. Sort of has a ’70s folk sound to it.”

  “Janis Ian,” I say.

  “Exactly. Janis Ian.”

  I wait. She stares. So, are you going to tell me it’s good enough to take to a publisher or . . .

  “Do you have another song?” she asks, reaching for her bottle of water.

  “Right, next song.”

  Susan stops me in the middle of “Let Go” and “Desert Rose.” “You’re getting there, Robin. I’m starting to feel the emotion. But . . .” She launches into a lecture about commercially appealing and high-concept songs, reminding me to pay attention to the hits, attend ASCAP workshops and as many songwriter’s nights as I can.

  I want to say, “What do you think I’ve been doing?” but I button it up. She’s trying to help, really.

  “Have you heard Emma Rice’s new song, ‘I Wanna Be’?”

  My head snaps up. “Yes, I have. Do you like it?”

  “Love it. Fantastic song. Now, there’s a hit song to study, Robin. The lyrics and the melody have perfect commercial appeal. Then, with a diva like Emma singing . . . mega-hit song.”

  I lower my guitar in its case. My heart thumps when I ask, “You don’t happen to know who wrote ‘I Wanna Be,’ do you? Maybe I can look them up and get a few pointers.”

  Susan slaps her hands together. “As a matter of fact, I do know who wrote the song. We were just talking about him this morning. He’s long overdue. I’m so happy for him.”

  I leave Susan West’s office with steam whistling from my ears. Graham Young. That low-down, lying, sneaking snake. I whip out my cell and dial him up. He doesn’t answer—go figure—so I leave a message.

  “Hey, it’s Robin. Give me a call. Now!”

  Climbing in my truck, I barrel up 17th Avenue South, getting madder by the minute. Darn it, what is he up to? I decide not to wait for his call; I’m hunting him down.

  This makes no sense. Sure Graham’s ambitious, but a thief ? A liar? My legs jitter involuntarily as I wait at the stoplight, my mind racing. Why? When? How?

  “My song. My sophomoric song.” With a low growl, I slam the heel of my hand against the steering wheel. Stealing any of my songs would’ve been bad, but “Your Country Princess” is special to me. Didn’t he know that?

  When the light turns green, I gun the gas and head east on Wedgewood Avenue. At Graham’s apartment, I pound on the door. “Graham. Open up.”

  His neighbor peeks out. “He’s gone, honey. Moved out about three weeks ago.”

  “Where?” I demand.

  She shrugs. “Didn’t say. I ain’t his keeper.”

  My shoulders droop. “Guess not.”

  My anger is morphing into tears. Talking to God and half muttering to myself, I work my way back to Music Row and the NSAI office. Surely Ella has seen him.

  “Not since the day you were here,” she says with a pout. “Robin, you two don’t have a thing, do you?”

  “No, Ella, he’s all yours. If there’s anything left when I’m done with him.”

  “What?”

  “If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.”

  “No word from Graham?” Lee asks, tossing a DVD on the coffee table while I spread out a Tennessee Titans blanket. Winter temperatures are descending on our October days.

  “Not one. And I’ve called him every day for the last two weeks.”

  He captures me and pulls me down to the couch with him. The leather crunches and squeaks as we land.

  “What are you doing?” I laugh.

  “We never talked about this, but did you really think I would give your song to Janie, or to anyone, without talking to you?” His eyes lock onto mine and hold on.

  Squirming, I plead, “Insanity.”

  He doesn’t let me off so easy. “Trust works both ways, Robin.
”

  “Again, insanity.” Slipping my arms around his neck, I kiss him. “Forgive me?”

  He brushes my hair away from my eyes. It’s gotten long again since my May shearing, and my bangs touch the tip of my nose. “Absolutely.” His kiss reminds me why I love being a woman.

  With that issue resolved, Lee cuts me loose and pops in the movie. He aims the remote and hits Play, then snuggles under the blanket next to me. Just when we’re warm and cozy, and in the middle of Will Smith running from aliens, Momma calls.

  “Can we bring fifty people?”

  “To where, the Bluebird?”

  “No, I’m calling about the state fair. Of course, the Bluebird.”

  “My songwriter’s night isn’t until November, Momma.”

  “We’re planning ahead.”

  I push myself forward. Lee runs his hand gently over my back. “Well, I guess y’all are. No, you can’t bring fifty people. There won’t be room for the other guests.”

  “Well, shug, who do I tell no? The aunts and uncles, grandparents, your granddaddy’s bluegrass boys? They’re all just dying to see you sing in Nashville.”

  Lee kisses my check and whispers, “I’ll be back.”

  “I already have Lee, Skyler, Blaire, Birdie, Walt, Arizona, and my one nonfamily, nonfriend fan, Mallory Clark. Plus you, Daddy, Eliza, and the grandparents.”

  Momma’s silence is thick. “I gotta tell Henna and the girls they can’t come?”

  Tough task. “Sorry, Momma.”

  “Henna already made T-shirts: ‘What happens in NashVegas stays in NashVegas.’”

  I laugh. “What are they planning to do, run naked down Broadway?”

  “For heaven’s sake, no. You know Henna; she has to have a hat or T-shirt for every occasion.”

  “Momma, tell them I’m sorry, but when I sing at the GEC, they can have front-row seats.”

  The sound and smell of popping popcorn fills the apartment.

  “The GEC?”

  “The Gaylord Entertainment Center. Big place downtown.”

  “Well, I’ll tell them, but they won’t be happy. Robin,” she hesitates, “ they all bought Emma’s new CD.”

  My heart thuds. “You’re kidding?”

  “They want to know why Graham Young’s name is on your song.”