Forgiving Jackson

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “And just how are we going to do that?”

  “Actually, I have a plan.”

  “Yeah?” Dirk came over and sat down on the stool two places down from Jackson’s. “Let’s hear it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “You two sit here until I come back for you.” Dirk slid from behind the wheel of his truck and stalked toward the door of The Café Down On The Corner, looking up and down the street as he went.

  “What was that about?” Emory asked.

  Jackson shook his head. “It’s what he does. He’ll pick where he wants us to sit and make whoever’s sitting there move if he has to. He’ll look around to make sure the exits aren’t blocked. For all I know, he might be interviewing people and running background checks.”

  “Is all that necessary?” Emory asked.

  “It is for him.” He pushed her hair off her face. “Thank you for coming with me.” Then he leered at her just a little. “And for coming with me.” And he gave her a long, sweet kiss.

  Her nipples tightened and she felt that sweet rush of dampness. It was glorious. This was what a normal woman felt on a hot summer night when her lover teased and kissed her. When she’d been getting ready to leave tonight, he’d jumped in the shower with her holding a Solo cup full of crushed ice. She’d squealed, thinking he was going to pour it on her, but he’d had a better plan. He filled his mouth with crushed ice and applied his cold lips and tongue to her nipple. Just the memory of it made her want to crawl into his lap and—

  “Come on, you two, if you’re coming.” Dirk knocked on the windshield.

  “We might have if you’d given us five more minutes,” Jackson whispered as they got out.

  “What are y’all laughing at?” Dirk asked.

  “You,” Jackson said.

  “Follow me, children.”

  Jackson pulled his cap down over his face and picked up his guitar case. He had told her the plan was to go unnoticed so as not to disrupt things for whoever was playing—and then, when there was an opening, do a couple songs and get out.

  “I’ve got us a table right by the stage against the wall,” Dirk said as they entered the front door.

  “Of course you do,” Jackson said.

  The Café Down On The Corner looked very different by night. It was dark and crowded and many of the tables had been pushed together to accommodate large groups. There was a small platform at the back of the room, no more than eighteen inches higher than the rest of the floor.

  Jackson took Emory’s hand to lead her through the crowd as they followed Dirk. So far, so good. No one had recognized him. When Jackson started to pull out a chair for Emory, Dirk stopped him.

  “I need to sit there so I can see the whole room.”

  To Emory’s surprise, Jackson didn’t make light of it. “Sorry. Here, Emory.” And he pulled out another chair for her.

  Once they were settled in, Jackson turned his attention to the stage where a boy who looked to be college age was singing Keith Urban’s “Days Gone By.”

  “Not bad,” Jackson murmured. When he went into a guitar solo, Jackson studied him intently and nodded.

  Billy Joe Reynolds appeared with three mugs. “Sam Adams all around? Or would the lady like something else? Wine, maybe, Emory?” Billy Joe had a big smile and a big heart.

  “This is fine, Billy Joe. Thank you.” She took her first of maybe five sips.

  “Jackson,” Billy Joe said with such affection that Emory could feel it to her core. “Robin will be over to say hello in a minute.”

  And then Jackson’s good manners and obvious fondness for the man overpowered his desire for a low profile. He stood to embrace Billy Joe and the light from the stage must have caught his face.

  Someone yelled, “Hey! It’s Jack Beauford! And he’s got his guitar.” And the place went wild.

  A split second before he turned to smile and wave at the room, he threw the boy on stage an apologetic glance. Jackson gestured to the stage, applauded, and tried to sit back down.

  Nothing doing. They were on their feet, some on chairs, stomping, catcalling, and demanding for him to take the stage.

  “Might as well,” he said to Billy Joe and reached for his guitar case.

  The room rocked with applause.

  Billy Joe stepped on the stage to the microphone that the boy had long since backed away from.

  “As you saw, one of our own ambled in tonight. We in Beauford, and particularly here at The Café Down On The Corner, are proud to claim Mr. Jackson Beauford, who I believe might be fixing to favor us with a song or two.”

  As Jackson made his way to the stage, the boy began to pack up. Emory felt sorry for him.

  Dirk said, “Watch. Jackson will make it all right for him.”

  Jackson went to the microphone and waved to the crowd, then waved them silent. But instead of greeting them, he turned to the boy.

  “Urban? Really? Right here in my own hometown? What next? Are you going to go to Australia and sing ‘Spring Break State of Mind’?” Jackson named his song that had been a number one hit single all spring long.

  At first, the boy looked mortified but then he got it and eased into a smile. Jackson had made him comfortable, just as he was always able to do with her.

  “I might,” the boy said. “Might be the next stop on my playing-for-free tour.”

  Great comeback. Everyone, including Jackson, laughed.

  “Ah, the playing-for-free tour. I know it well,” Jackson said as he tuned his guitar. “Mine started right here at The Café Down On The Corner. What’s your name?” Jackson asked.

  “Chase Callahan.”

  “Chase Callahan,” Jackson said to the audience. “Where are you from, Chase?”

  “Dalton, Georgia. I go to Belmont University.”

  “You made a smart move to come to Tennessee. Brad Paisley, Josh Turner, and Trisha Yearwood went to Belmont. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, sir. Florida Georgia Line, too. Both of them.”

  Jackson gave the audience a mock look of horror.

  “I’m a sir now. Well, Mr. Chase Callahan, do you know ‘Spring Break State of Mind’?”

  “I do,” Chase said.

  “All the words?”

  “By heart, I swear.”

  “By heart, I swear.” Jackson set his mouth and nodded. “Chase, my friend, I believe you have just come up with a song title. Do you write music?”

  “I do.”

  “Is it any good?”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  “You need to turn that into a song and make it more than okay. Meanwhile, let’s do a little ‘Spring Break State of Mind.’ You up for that?”

  “Me?”

  Jackson looked around.

  “I don’t see anybody else. I just brought my acoustic. You’re going to have to play lead guitar. I’ll sing backup.”

  Chase Callahan looked like someone had just deeded him the moon. Emory wanted to cry as the two of them stepped up to the microphone and belted out the summertime, feel-good song all about beaches, tattoos, and girls in bikinis.

  “He really is a good guy, isn’t he?” she whispered to Dirk.

  “One of the best. He just doesn’t know it all the time.”

  When the song ended, Jackson said, “That’s a mighty fine instrument you’ve got there, Chase. Fender Telecaster? Mind if I take it for a little spin?”

  Chase almost tripped himself up on the cables, cords, and strap handing it over. Jackson fiddled with it a moment then did a couple of rifts. The crowd laughed and cheered but they were getting restless.

  Dirk leaned over. “They won’t take much more of this. They want Jackson by himself.”

  Just then Jackson took out his phone.

  “Come here, Chase. It’s selfie time.” He took a picture of the two of them and then said, “I’m tweeting now. ‘Singing with my friend Chase Callahan and his guitar at Café Down On The Corner, hashtag KeithUrbaneatyourheartout.’” With that, Jackson
handed a very happy Chase Callahan back his guitar and the boy exited the stage.

  “He just took an ordinary instrument and made it worth a lot of money—probably enough to buy some good equipment,” Dirk said.

  “Do you think he’ll sell it?”

  Dirk shrugged. “Who knows? I guess it depends on if he’s a fan or a real musician. Jackson would have.”

  And Jackson just continued to make everyone in the room fall in love with him. He sang his newest release, “A Habit Not Worth Breaking,” and a medley of his early hits, including “The Hurting Side of Love”—during which he met Emory’s eyes and winked.

  Then he pulled up a stool, sat down, and talked as he retuned his guitar. “Before I turn this stage, that I so thoughtlessly hijacked, back over to Chase Callahan, I’m going to do something for you that’s brand new. You’re the first to hear it.”

  Emory hoped it would be the beautiful tune he’d been playing that night on the porch before he sang ‘The Hurting Side of Love’ for her. She’d asked him about it but he’d told her he still hadn’t finished it. Maybe he had now.

  But when he started to play the intro, Emory became ill. It was that mean little song she’d heard him singing about her when he first came back to Beauford Bend. At the time, she hadn’t cared, had even thought it was funny. But now … after he’d held her and made her care—how could he do this her? And in public?

  He began to sing.

  Caught somewhere between

  A fairy tale and a dream

  She had to get out of here. Now. She looked around for an escape route. But not soon enough. He was singing again.

  She drifted through my heart and put my soul at ease.

  She can help me face tomorrow

  And let go of yesterday.

  It’s in her sweet embrace

  That I have found my place.

  But wait. Drifted through his heart? Put his soul at ease? It wasn’t the mean song. It had new words.

  Caught somewhere between

  My fear and my need

  She smiled her special smile that brought me to my knees.

  I’ll be forever grateful that

  She gave me another chance

  When my weary heart

  Couldn’t see love at first glance.

  Was he singing about her? It would have never occurred to her to think he might be if not for the first rendition that so clearly had been. Songwriters wrote songs all the time that weren’t about anyone. But he had said that her smile could bring a man to his knees.

  Caught somewhere between

  Real love and misery

  I wandered in a desert of barren mystery.

  There must have been an angel

  Watching out from up above

  Who helped me to accept

  Her sweet abiding love.

  She let the words ease into to her and warm her heart—though she cautioned herself not to hope too much. But they were such sweet words.

  Caught somewhere between

  Such weariness and defeat

  The road to lasting love is seldom what it seems.

  She took my cold, bare heart

  And filled it with such joy

  That the sweet love and warmth

  There never will depart.

  Caught somewhere between

  A fairy tale and a dream

  She drifted though my heart and put my soul at ease.

  She has helped me face tomorrow

  And let go of yesterday.

  It’s in her sweet embrace.

  That I know my place.

  What if the words were about her?

  • • •

  Jackson could scarcely believe he’d gotten such a high from that little crowd at The Café Down On The Corner. It had felt like the old days. And best of all, there had been no flames, no smoke, no panic—just him, the music, the crowd, and sweet, sweet Emory.

  The second they entered her house, he swung her into his arms and kissed her, maybe like he’d never kissed her before.

  Hell’s bells and damnation! Was he scaring her? He jerked back but she just smiled and ran her hand up his side.

  “I was so proud of you tonight. You were so good. And the way you handled Chase. That was the mark of a real professional.”

  When she said things like that, he didn’t know how to deal with how he felt.

  “It didn’t hurt me and might have helped him.”

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  Yes, come to think of it, he was. Starving. He had been too nervous to eat much lunch and he’d had no dinner.

  “I’m just about to cave in,” he said.

  “I could make you a fried bologna sandwich.”

  “You are the best!” He kissed her again.

  “Go take a shower,” she said.

  “Do I stink?”

  “No, but your hair is wet with sweat. You’ll feel better.”

  He did feel better after bathing. He just hoped he’d still feel good after the conversation he was about to have with Emory.

  She cuddled next to him while he ate his sandwiches and got him another beer when he’d finished eating.

  “Thanks.” He set the beer aside. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Something good, I hope.”

  “It’s not lost on me that you think I should do Camille’s concert.” It was the first time he’d said his sister’s name in a long time.

  “It isn’t lost on you because I told you that.” And she smiled that smile.

  He nodded. “You did at that. Tell me why you think I should do it, why you care.” He knew but he needed ammunition for what he was going to ask.

  “Like I said before, I think you were born to share music. I think it’s a passion that moves inside of you, that hurts you when it can’t come out. I think you love to perform—just like you loved it tonight. And I want the best for you. I mean that, Jackson.”

  “I know you do, sweetheart. And everything you said is true. Have you wondered why I wanted to quit?”

  She nodded. “Of course I have. I assumed it’s because you’re grieving.”

  He shook his head. “I’m used to grief. I’ve been grieving all my life—for my family. I’ve been afraid—to the point that almost every time I try to play, I smell the smoke and feel the flames.” Telling her this was even harder than he had expected. He covered his face. “Trace was with me from the first. Cody, almost as long. Brandon, my manager—we fought every morning before breakfast but he was good at his job and we respected each other. And the other guys … Plus, all those people who’d come to see me. Emory, I could smell them burning. I can’t relive that again. More than that, I cannot risk people dying because of me—not ever again.”

  “Jackson.” When she said his name it might have been the most tender sound he’d ever heard. She took him in her arms and he needed to be there. “You don’t have to,” she whispered. “There are other ways you can use your music. Write. You can still record.”

  He sat up and pulled away. “No. You were right to begin with. If I don’t do Camille’s concert, I’ll walk away from music. But I’ve been working on it. And after tonight, I think I can do it. I was happy tonight—just like I was happy singing at church and that night on the porch with you. I think I’m finding my way back. But I need a little help.”

  “So you’re going to do the concert?” She smiled, so pleased.

  “I will if I get your help.”

  She looked puzzled, just like he knew she would. “Of course I’ll help you, though I don’t know what I can do.”

  “Can you be brave?”

  Enlightenment bloomed on her face. “You want me to come to Nashville. Yes. I can do that. I can come to the show.”

  He shook his head and took her in his arms.

  “No. It’s more. I need to be forced into a corner and you’re the only one who can do it. You said you want what’s best for me. Well, I want what’s best for you, too. That’s the only rea
son I’m asking for what I’m asking. I want that name.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “What?” Surely Emory had misheard. She jerked out of Jackson’s arms and looked him full in the face. The Jackson who made her feel like she was worth loving—even if he wasn’t going to be the one to do it—would never ask that of her.

  “I want the name, Emory. I know it starts with a D. You almost said it a few nights ago. If you’re ever going to recover completely, he has to pay.”

  Her temper flared.

  “I guess you need me to recover completely so we can have real sex.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not true and that’s not fair.”

  He was right; it wasn’t fair. No man could have been sweeter, more patient, or expected less. But what he was asking wasn’t fair either.

  “Let me make sure I understand this. You’ll do the concert if I’ll give you the name?”

  He nodded.

  “And if I won’t, you won’t.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “That’s blackmail!”

  “No. It’s two people helping each other do something they both know they need to do.”

  “No. You’ve already said you know it would be best for you if you did it. So now you’re just holding it over my head. You’re counting too much on how much I care if you do what’s best for yourself.”

  “I don’t think I am.”

  “So if I won’t give you the name, you’re going to cut your nose off to spite your face and not do what you know is right?”

  “It’s not like that.” He shook his head.

  “So you aren’t leaving me a choice.”

  He shook his head, and uncertainty and pain ravaged his face—and there was no doubt it was real. When had she first been able to sort out what was real in his expression and what was for show?

  “You do have a choice. And in a lot of ways, it would be a relief to me because it would mean I could give up. But my desire to give up doesn’t outweigh my desire to help you.”

  She bowed her head so he couldn’t read her face. He’d summed it up pretty well; she wanted him to have his life back more than anything, even more than she wanted him.

  “I said I thought I could do it,” he went on. “But if we don’t exchange this promise, I might not. I need something to guarantee I can’t walk away, or else I might. I need to conquer this but I need your help. You see, once I agree, they’ll have my face on a thousand billboards and a story on every media outlet in the country by nightfall, not because this event needs advertising but because the world is waiting to see if I’m washed up. I don’t want to make promises to my fans that I might not keep.”