by Rachel Hauck
I draw the blanket over my head. What a nightmare. “Momma, just tell them it’s business.”
“All right. How are you doing with this?” Her voice is like an embrace. She and Daddy were spitting mad when I called to break the news about Graham stealing my song. But more than Daddy, or anyone else in the family, I believe Momma shoulders the load of my disappointment. She’s walked a mile in my shoes, and then some.
“I’m okay. Everyone’s been so great—Lee, Skyler, Birdie, Walt. But no clues as to where I can find Graham. I’ve asked everyone I know. He’s disappeared.”
Lee yanks the blanket off my head and slips in next to me with a big bowl of popcorn.
“Well, the Lord sees and knows.”
“He does.” Momma’s a good one with “the-Lord-knows” or “the-Lord’s-will” Band-Aid of truth. “Listen, Lee’s here and we’re watching a movie. Talk to you later.”
“Good night, my songbird.”
“G-good night.” I hang up. Songbird? Momma’s never used affectionate nicknames before. I don’t know about the rest of the world, but Robin and Bit McAfee are experiencing their own global warming.
When the movie credits roll, Lee clicks off the TV and kisses me with powerful, electric lips. Clearing that last bit of Janie dust from our air has turned up the heat. Shew-wee.
“I’m really proud of you,” he says.
“Well, thank you. You’re a good kisser too.” I fall against his chest.
His laugh rumbles in my ear. “I mean how you’re handling this song business.”
“What choice do I have? Deal with it or run home. And I’m not running.” I sit up. “I keep telling myself that at the core of this, my song is a hit. Even Susan West thinks so.”
“I don’t know how Graham stole your song. If he saw in you what I see—” Lee shakes his head. “He’d have never done it.”
“You’re trying to melt my heart, aren’t you?”
He kisses me. “Maybe.” A light knock echoes on my door. “You expecting company?”
“No.” I shove my hair from my eyes, thinking I need to make an appointment at Bishop’s tomorrow, and skid across the floor in my stocking feet. Birdie and Walt are on the other side of the door.
“Hey, you two, come in.”
Lee calls from the kitchen, “Y’all want something to drink?”
Walt raises his hand. A thick gold ring is wrapped around his middle finger. “We’re good, Lee, thanks.”
“And what are you two lovebirds up to this evening?” I fold the blanket to make room on the couch.
Walt holds Birdie’s hand as she sits. I perch on the arm of the club chair. “Is everything okay?”
Birdie gushes. “We’re getting married.”
“Holy cow, you’re getting married.” I crush Birdie with a hug. “Congratulations.”
“Yeah, we’re getting hitched,” Walt says with a raspy chuckle.
Lee comes in with two glasses of Pepsi. “What brought this on?” He stoops to kiss Birdie’s cheek. “Congratulations.”
Walt gazes at Birdie when he says, “We’ve known each other a long time. And once you know, why wait?”
“Sounds good to me.” Lee’s tone makes me go ah-o.
“There’s more,” Birdie says. “I have—”
“May have,” Walt interrupts.
“May have cancer.”
I set my drink down and drop to my knees in front of her. “Cancer? Birdie . . .”
“Crazy cigarettes.”
“You smoked?”
“For years. I quit awhile back, but the doctor found some spots on my lungs.”
I slip my hand under hers. “When did you find out?”
Birdie squeezes my hand. “A few days ago. It’s just a few odd-looking cells, but the doc wants to take a closer look.” Her blue eyes fill with tears.
Walt wraps both of his arms around her. “I don’t want her going through this alone.”
Birdie laughs softly. “I refused his first proposal. I can’t see putting this kind of burden on a new marriage, but he insisted.” Birdie flashes her ring finger under my nose.
“Sakes alive, Walt.” Birdie’s diamond blinds me. Like the time I tried to look directly into the sun on a dare. “It’s beautiful.”
She squishes up her shoulders with a sigh. “He did good, didn’t he?”
Walt nudges her cheek. “I’ll be hunting for your false teeth when you’re ninety, pet.”
Love believes all things.
“We’re not really church people, you know,” Birdie says, “but do you think your pastor, Shawn, would marry us? In a few weeks?”
Lee nods. “Ask him.”
“And, Robin, will you be my bridesmaid? I never had a daughter and—”
“Sweet Birdie!” I throw my arms around her. “I’d be honored.” Walt stands and hooks his thumbs in his waistband. His wide belt buckle holds up his blue jeans. “This calls for a toast.” He scurries down three flights of stairs for a bottle of wine. When he returns, we toast love, life, and health.
“And to friends,” Birdie says with her gaze fixed on me.
I raise my goblet. “To friends.”
When Birdie and Walt leave, Lee lures me out on the deck, into the chilly night. He wraps me in his arms for warmth.
“Look how bright the stars are,” I say, hooking my hands around his arms. “Like they know Birdie is in love.”
“What about you?” He tightens his arms.
“What about me?”
“Are you in love?” he asks.
“Are you?” I counter, suddenly nervous.
“Is this Twenty Questions?”
“I don’t know, is it?”
Lee looks down at me. “Robin, be serious for a moment.”
“I am.”
He turns me to face him. “I want to talk to your dad.”
“About what?”
“About us.”
I can’t see his face very well in the dim light, but his tone tells me he’s talking serious. “Y-y-you mean like, like Birdie and Walt?”
“What do you think?” His breath is warm on my hair.
“After two months?” I break away. “We haven’t even said I love you yet.”
“I love you, Robin.”
Okay, there’s that. “Lee,” I smooth my hand down his strong arm, “you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met. When I’m with you, I feel like I can buy the world with Lucky Charms and Cracker Jacks.”
He holds my face in his hands and kisses me.
This ain’t helping. I flounder to express myself. Darn, I hate this. I want to move forward with this relationship but not straight to the altar. Seems as if Lee’s already pulled into the station and called “All aboard.”
“I’m meeting people around Nashville, learning the business, and with the Lord’s grace, beating stage fright. For the first time, I don’t feel quite like an alien.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’ve bit off all I can chew right now. I know God is able to handle everything, but I’m only one bitty woman.” I hold my hands to my shoulders. “See, narrow shoulders.”
Lee doesn’t so much as smile.
“I’m not ready for you to talk to my daddy.” There, I said it. Not in a smooth, country ballad kind of way, but I said it.
Lee’s chest rises and falls. “I understand, but Robin, I do want to mar—”
“Don’t say it.” I stick my fingers in my ears. La, la, la, la. “I don’t want to hear it. I’ve already said no to one proposal this year.”
Sheesh, if I say no twice in one year, Skyler would flat kill me.
Lee crawls back inside. I crawl in after him. “Lee, I’m sorry. I reckon I’m just not—”
“Do you love me?” He grabs his jacket.
I wring my hands. Do I love him? “Lee, you are incredible. In every way. I can’t believe I met a man like you so soon. You’re becoming my best friend, but I’m just not ready to say things like ‘I love you�
�� or ‘I’ll marry you.’”
He jerks open the door. “I’d better go. It’s late.”
“It’s nine o’clock.”
“I’ve got an early breakfast meeting.”
“On Saturday?” I drop to the sofa. “Are you mad?”
“No, just disappointed.” He opens the door.
“Call me?”
“Sure.” He closes the door without so much as a smile or see ya later.
Ah, crud.
26
Saturday morning, Skyler calls. “Get up and come down here!”
I push my eyes open. “Come down where?” I glance at my clock. Seven a.m. Is she crazy?
“Pancake Pantry. I had a hankering for pancakes. Then we’re going to my place to bake goodies for my church’s youth fund-raiser.” I hear her car door slam.
“I don’t bake,” I say, untangling my feet from the sheets. See how I’m not ready for marriage? I don’t bake. And I’m a bed hog. All the covers are mine. Mine.
“You can stir the batter, crack eggs, measure sugar.”
“Isn’t that baking? I may be half asleep, but I’m not stupid.”
“Fine, sing to me while I slave away.”
“Skyler, do tell, how do you get into an emergency baking situation?”
“Mrs. Gillaspy called last night desperate for more baked goods for the October Fest fund-raiser.”
“Well, since it’s for October Fest . . .” I fumble my way to the bathroom unable to open my eyes. They’re glued shut with dried tears.
“Great. And this afternoon, we’re boot shopping. I want to go to the Boot Corral.”
“Boot shopping? My dear lawyer cousin, once again, I’m flat broke.”
“I’ll buy you a pair. Merry early Christmas. You’ve got to see this place, Robin. Every boot imaginable, and the walls are lined with pictures of country stars. Besides, every songwriter needs a good pair of boots. Red ones.”
“We do? Says who?”
“Me. I’m in a shopping mood. You in the car yet?”
“No, but I’m in the bathroom.”
“That’s a start.”
When I pull up to the red-brick Pancake Pantry, the waiting line wraps around the block. With an awkward, “I’m looking for my cousin,” to those who think I’m cutting in line, I spot Skyler along the row of windows, waving from a table in the corner.
“This place is packed,” I say, dropping my keys on the table. “By the way, I left the house without my purse, which means no wallet, no driver’s license, no money.” A waitress fills my coffee cup.
“What happened to you?” Skyler wrinkles her nose at me while motioning for the waitress to hold up. “Give us two orders of the original pancakes and two sides of bacon.”
“Lee told me he loved me last night. He wants to talk to Daddy—”
“Oh my gosh, Robin, I’ve got goose bumps. I’m so jealous. Look at you, a hit song, a very handsome contractor fiancé—”
I stop her verbal skip down the rose-trimmed path. “I didn’t say it back. And it’s Graham’s hit, not mine.”
“You didn’t say it back? What’s wrong with you? And it is your song, just no one knows it.”
I unroll the silverware from my napkin. “We’ve only known each other for five months. Dated for two. I’m only twenty-five.”
“Oh my gosh, cry me a river. You’ve had two marriage proposals in a year. I haven’t had one in twenty-six.”
“Technically, he didn’t ask. He’s only hinted.”
“You’re scared, aren’t you?” Skyler motions to the waitress for more coffee.
“Maybe. Some. Not much. Come on, marriage is a serious commitment.”
She shakes her head. “You beat all, you know?”
I don’t want to talk about it anymore, so I change the subject. “How’s Kip?” Skyler went on a blind date last week with a friend of Blaire’s steady, Ezra.
She grins. “Good. He’s called a few times.” Kip turned out to be exactly Skyler’s type—a good-looking athletic physician’s assistant.
“He’s coming to church with me tomorrow.”
Our waitress brings breakfast, and my stomach, if not my brain, wakes up, and, for the moment, my problems disappear with a pat of butter and swirl of maple syrup.
Tuesday morning Marty Schultz shows up at Nashville Noise.
“Beat me with an ugly stick. Where’ve you been?” I throw my arms around her.
She looks happy. Happy for Marty. Her hair is dyed a rich brown, and her blue eyes are no longer streaked with red. Her jeans and baggy T-shirt are the same but a might neater than in the past.
“I’m moving back to Arkansas.”
“Why?”
She reaches in a Starbuck’s bag and hands me a coffee. “For old time’s sake,” she says with a confident smile. “The coffee, not the move.”
I walk to the reception area and perch on the sofa.
“I decided to go to college,” Marty says, sitting next to me.
I choke on my coffee. She shouldn’t drop bombs on me without a shrill whistle or a “Bombs away.”
“College? Really?”
She laughs softly. “I know it’s out of the blue, but I always wanted to go to college and study music, maybe teach. You gave me courage to face my fears.”
“How George Bailey of me.” I wink at my friend. “But, I have to ask, what fears?”
She fiddles with her coffee cup lid. “I barely graduated high school. By seventeen, I was already playing gigs, traveling weekends. What did I need with school? After the Delaney Brown fiasco, I took a close look at my life and decided school actually sounded fun, but I was afraid of bombing out again. If I failed school, what did I have left but cleaning toilets the rest of my life? Then I met you, fighting for your dreams, overcoming fears, and I thought, ‘Why not me?’”
I hug her again. “I’m proud of you. College is a lot of work.”
She wrinkles her nose, but her eyes are lit up. “I know. I would’ve been a terrible student at eighteen. But I know what I want now. Mom is paying my way, so I don’t have to work unless I want to.”
“So, why’d you disappear on Marc?” I check my watch. Almost nine. “Sorry, Marty, but I need to finish up here. Marc left early to meet with a client, and he’s got me scheduled for jobs all day.”
Marty wads up the paper bag. “I understand. Listen, I didn’t disappear on Marc. I called in sick so I could extend my Fourth weekend and visit the college admissions office. The same day, I e-mailed him with my plan, but he never checks his e-mail. He’s a phone man. I got a response from him a month later.”
“He never told me.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you.” Marty rises, and I walk her to the front door.
“It’s okay,” I say, adding with a chuckle, “it figured you needed a break from this town.” I laugh. “But I did wonder if you stole ‘Your Country Princess.
’”
Marty gasps softly, tipping her head sideways. “Someone stole your song? I’ve been out of touch . . . Oh my gosh.” Then she narrows her eyes. “I would never steal someone else’s song. I know what that feels like.”
“I came to the same conclusion.” I give her the sixty-second sound bite of how I discovered Emma Rice singing my song. And Graham Young’s name is on it.”
She moans and grips my arms. “Don’t get bitter, just get better. Write another hit song. Be more careful in the future.” She’s intense, like she’s willing me to not suffer her plight. We stop by the front door.
“I will. Marty, I’m going to miss you.”
She sniffles. “I already miss you. But not Marc. Not this job. Not this town. Only you. Thanks for being a light when I needed one.”
“Any time.” We hug good-bye. I hope this is not the last I see of Marty Shultz.
My last chore at Nashville Noise is to toss the garbage in the dumpster. But Marty’s surprise visit made me skip Mr. Chastain’s office, so I run back to check his trash.
The picture I borrowed is back on the wall, safe and sound. And praise be, I never heard a word from Marc about it.
Looking back, that whole ordeal gives me the willies. “What a shocker,” I mutter as I dump Mr. Chastain’s trash.
“What’s a shocker?” The overhead lights flicker on.
I snap around, dropping the trash can and ramming my hand into the side of the desk. Ow. “M-Mr. Chastain.”
“Good morning.” He’s dressed casually in khakis and a white button-down. His graying hair is still wet from the shower. He looks different than the picture on the wall. Older, wiser.
“I’ll be right out of your way, sir.” I slide his trash can under the credenza.
“No, not until I hear about the shocker.” He sets his laptop case on his desk.
I fudge since I don’t want to tell him about the picture. “Well . . . sir . . . ”
“Did you take my picture?” He points to the very one.
Aha, James Chastain’s elves hold my feet to the fire. “Yes, sir. But I brought it back, unharmed.”
He walks over to the wall of fame, hands in his pockets. “I tried to sell this picture on eBay when Gilly Stone put out his two-CD set of golden hits.”
“You did?”
He swirls his big leather desk chair around and sits. “Didn’t get one bid.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well, okay, one. My friend Wynn bid on it for me.”
A snort escapes my nose. Can’t help it. His expression is funny.
He stares at me, and I drop my gaze to my Nikes. The Hefty bag dangles from my hand. “You didn’t want to sell it anyway, did you?”
He unsnaps his laptop case. “I have about fifty of those in the storage closet.”
“Still a rare find. At least this one is signed, and Casey Jones just passed away.” I walk over for a closer look, not so shocked anymore to see Bit Lukeman’s face. “I saw this picture in the Hall.”
“Why’d you take it?” he asks, booting up his laptop.
I tap the glass. “That woman is my—”
My confession is interrupted by his ringing phone. He answers with a “Hullo,” then yuks it up with the person on the other end with phrases like “you devil,” and “Yeah, he hit number one.”
