by Sylvia Fox
I imagined my momma climbing down the tree that grew outside her bedroom window at granddaddy’s house to sneak off with Harold Morris. The idea was delightful.
“What happened to Earl Driscoll? What did Robert mean by comparing him to me?”
“Earl dropped out of New Tazewell when he was sixteen and lit out for Nashville, with a pregnant Katie Sullivan in tow. Music Row. And he was good enough that he actually found work there playing his guitar. We all figured he’d be back in a week, but he stuck. He was in demand. He started off doing studio stuff, but before long he was in high demand, touring, that sort of stuff. He played on a few records and toured with some big country acts.
“But the fast life and the pressure of being a father so young ate him up. He started partying, drinking, doing drugs, and he burned himself out. They found him in a hotel room in Las Vegas with a needle in his arm. Nineteen years old. He’d fathered children with not only Katie Sullivan, but two other girls by the time he passed. For a while, it was a cautionary tale around here. Teachers and parents would tell kids about it, warn them not to become another Earl Driscoll. But years went by and he just sort of faded away; nobody really talks about him anymore.
“Robert’s right, though. That whole music scene is a fast, wild ride. I’m excited for you, whatever tonight means. But I want you to keep your eyes wide open, and remember, the people here, right here,” he waved his arm toward the Cavanaugh farm next door and then pointed across the street toward Shelby’s house, “are the people who care about you, whether you ever sing another note, alright?”
I knew he was right. I hugged his neck and dragged myself up to my room, where I collapsed onto my bed.
14
Over the next few days, I was more Alice in Wonderland than Lia in New Tazewell. Facebook became completely unmanageable, my YouTube channel began to drown in comments, and I was receiving Twitter messages from people with blue checkmarks next to their names around the clock.
Travis wanted me to join him on tour. Caleb sent me songs he hoped we could record together. More than one Grammy-winner contacted me about the possibility of working together. I heard through the grapevine, since he didn’t do social media or own a cell phone, that Ian Ion was dying to get me in the studio. It was dizzying.
An impromptu “concert” was set up at New Tazewell High, and I performed a set of cover songs to a crowd that I think was a little disappointed that I couldn’t convince any of my new, famous “friends” to join me on stage.
Girls who had been bitches to me before were suddenly inviting me to hang out, and guys who didn’t know my name wanted to take me to prom. And not just my prom, proms all over east Tennessee, southern Kentucky, and western Virginia.
I retreated into a cocoon inhabited by the Cavanaugh’s, Shelby, and my dad.
After a “family meeting” my dad, Robert Cavanaugh, and Mrs. Pollard who was New Tazewell high school’s music teacher, we decided that I’d spend a few days in Nashville when school was out. Robert, Mrs. Pollard, and Shelby’s family would accompany me. I’d meet with Travis, Ian, a rep from Vidas Artist Management, and some record company A&R folks.
We’d lay down a few tracks, and if things went well, we’d start talking to record companies and consult with a local attorney, Claiborne County prosecutor Leonard Evans, before signing anything. If we progressed that far, he’d put us in touch with a colleague who specialized in entertainment law.
I practiced with Mrs. Pollard each day for the final few weeks of school, fine-tuning my voice for what amounted to a massive audition in front of some very important people, and I felt as ready as I could possibly be.
The big day arrived, and a caravan left Claiborne County for Music Row. Shelby and her parents drove together, Mrs. Pollard took her own vehicle, as she planned to continue her trip and visit family in Missouri after we’d concluded our business. I rode along with Robert, since it was decided that I needed to rest my voice, and being in a car with Shelby for three-and-a-half hours wouldn’t be conducive to that.
I wore headphones, humming along softly to certain songs, trying to get myself “in the zone.”
When my playlist got around to Travis Zane’s song Bliss, I found myself staring at Mr. Cavanaugh’s rough hand on the steering wheel; the muscles in his forearms rippling when he adjusted his grip. It was a sexy song, and being alone with him, so close, brought my mind back to certain… fantasies I’d cultivated regarding my dad’s best friend. The more I got into the words of the song, your hands…your kiss…. every night with you is bliss…and the breathy delivery, I imagined Mr. Cavanaugh delivering some of the spoken lines Travis delivers to his lover near the end of the song, telling her how sexy she is, how badly he wants her, had me distracted by my need. I looked away from him and tried to count trees going by, fixate on other cars and trucks, anything to distract me from the effect the music and the man were having on me. The bliss my body was demanding I deliver.
“Are you okay, Liane?”
His voice startled me. I slipped my earbuds out. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Just asking if you were okay.”
“Yeah, oh, yes, yes of course. I’m fine. Just nervous.” I hadn’t realized it, but I’d been practically writhing on the seat next to him.
“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about. You’re going to be great.” He switched hands on the steering wheel, freeing his right hand to set it down. Right. On. My. Knee.
I was wearing a dress that came to mid-thigh, and when his hand came to rest on the bare flesh just above my knee, I thought I might faint.
He glanced at me a moment and smiled, before returning his eyes to the road. But he left his hand where it was for another two beats of my jackhammering heart before returning it to the steering wheel.
He’d never, to my recollection, touched me there before. Especially not since I’d reached a certain age, a certain maturity, when it became definably inappropriate for him to do so. Yet all I wanted was for him to do it again.
We completed our trip without incident, arriving at the address we’d been provided by my Vidas Management rep, Ashleigh Thomas.
It was a small, nondescript building a few blocks from the Nashville you see on television. But the collection of expensive cars outside made it clear that a collection of some music industry heavy hitters waited inside.
In Charlotte, I hadn’t had time to be nervous; it all happened so quickly that I just went with the moment and instinct took over. Now, however, I was nauseated by the stress.
We got out of our cars, and one by one pep talks were delivered to me. Everybody took turns trying to convince me that I was “going to do great” and “not to be nervous,” which, of course, had the opposite effect.
Mrs. Pollard reminded me to breathe. Robert held my face in his hands and made eye contact with me, our foreheads nearly touching. “You’ve made us all so proud, Liane. You’ve put in the work. The hay’s in the barn, girl. This is just gravy. This is the fun part. Go get ‘em.”
And so I did.
15
Ashleigh Thomas met us outside, and I recognized her from her picture on the Vidas web site before she introduced herself. She had wild, curly dark hair and a warm smile. She walked right up and extended a hand. “Lia, I’m Ashleigh. Happy to finally meet you. I’m a huge fan!”
I’d never get tired of people telling me they were fans of mine. It was all so absurd. Just the idea that people I’d never met knew who I was, much less thought of themselves as my fans, was still bizarre to me.
Ashleigh met what she referred to as my “entourage,” and we went inside. The space was filled with people, but seemed larger than it appeared from the outside. Travis hugged me and Shelby, and she was thrilled to see that two of his friends had made the trip with him, including Jonah, the dancer with whom she’d hit it off in Charlotte.
A keyboardist I recognized from Whatley’s Garage was in the studio warming up, and an older guy who looked something like a biker tun
ed a guitar on a stool off to the side.
Ian led me down the hallway to a smaller studio, not much bigger than a closet, and had me go inside while he worked the board. He wanted me to familiarize myself with the microphone and the acoustics before we returned to the big room.
Mrs. Pollard joined us, and we went over the set together before I sang scales and performed some other warmup exercises.
As we rounded the corner and squeezed back into where Ian Ion would monitor the board, I caught a glimpse of a surprise visitor - Caleb Whatley.
He was leaning against the far wall, wearing a sexy smirk on his face, and he cocked his head and nodded at me as I slipped into the studio.
I opened with Fearless, accompanied by the guitar and piano. I could hear the nerves in my voice at first, but once I settled down a bit and got into the flow, I thought I sounded much better. Hearing myself through headphones as I sung wasn’t something I was used to, but the adjustment wasn’t difficult.
When I finished, Ian cleared the room so I could do the same song, acapella.
I was pitchy right off the bat, and I asked to stop for a moment. My mind flooded with thoughts of the five people who’d accompanied me to Nashville, and what a colossal waste of their time I was making this entire trip. Which only made my stomach hurt, I was so nervous.
“Turn around. Face the back wall. Even then, close your eyes. Then start again when you’re ready,” Ian Ion instructed me from the booth, through my headset.
I nodded in reply and turned around. I recalled Mrs. Pollard’s constant admonitions to breathe, and I inhaled twice, as deeply as I could. I shook out my fingers, rolled my head around my shoulders, and gave a thumb up to Ian and whoever ese was behind the glass with him, unseen.
This time, I nailed it. I didn’t reach, perhaps, the crescendo I had in Charlotte, but I was enthused about what I’d done.
I waited for Ian, or anybody, to say something over my headphones, but there was only a long, uncomfortable silence.
I started to turn around when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find Caleb Whatley standing there.
“You need somebody to sing to. Remain facing the wall, Caleb is going to sit on a stool there. Sing the song to him. Technically, it was flawless, but I need more emotion. More feeling. Connect with Caleb and start again when you’re ready.” I thought I’d given every ounce of myself to the song, but Ian wanted more, and Caleb waited, expectantly, for me to resume my performance.
I went through my breathing again and looked at the floor to compose myself. When I looked up, it was into Caleb Whatley’s light brown eyes. He stood before me, hands in the pockets of his jeans, tight t-shirt accentuating his pecs. God, he was gorgeous.
He took a step forward, and I honestly thought he was going to kiss me. He gave me his crooked smile and took one of my hands in his. He mouthed what looked, to me, like, “You got this, Lia.”
I exhaled through puffed out cheeks and nodded. He took a step back and leaned against the wall, looking every bit like a guy in a GQ ad.
This time, I was in the song. I owned it. I belted it with balled fists, stepping toward Caleb, pointing at him, casting caution and nerves aside.
As the last note hung in the air, Ian’s voice came over my headset. “Well, that was fucking fierce. Take five. I need to recover.”
I grinned at Caleb and he stepped forward and embraced me. The hug was strong and genuine, and we laughed through it. We both knew something special had just happened.
“That’s your first single. Right there,” Caleb said. “Cover or not, the original can’t touch that.”
The piano and guitar players returned, and we went through two more solo efforts before Travis came in to do a duet with me. Caleb also sang a song with me before Ian called an end to the day. I was emotionally spent.
We planned to meet the same group the following afternoon back in the studio to do a few more songs before I’d meet with Ashleigh and we’d discuss what I hoped to achieve and what Vidas Management could do for me.
Shelby and I shared a hotel room that night, and after a dinner in which everybody reassured me that I’d done a terrific job, my best friend and I retired to our room.
“Have you two set a date yet?” Shelby asked as soon as we were away from her parents.
“What?”
“You are totally going to be Lia Whatley, you know that, right?” Shelby said as she flopped down on her bed.
I was busy going through my suitcase, hanging things up to avoid wrinkles. “What in the world are you talking about, Shelby? Did you sneak some wine at dinner?”
“Come on, girl, it’s so obvious. The way he looks at you? Are you kidding me? I noticed it back in Charlotte. And you can’t tell me he isn’t hot.”
“Sure, he’s sexy if you’re into that type,” I replied.
“Yeah, handsome, talented, built… you’re right, who’d possibly be into a guy like that?”
I sat down in a comfy chair in the corner of the room, next to Shelby’s bed. “When he came into the studio with me, and he came up close, I thought he was going to kiss me!” I covered my blushing face with both hands.
“That would have been totally appropriate. ‘Hey, all you music industry people who flew in to hear me sing? I need to take a break to make out with the ridiculously hot lead singer of this unsigned band you should sign.’ It would have been a win-win for everybody,” Shelby joked.
“He keeps asking me about coming to North Carolina to perform at the state fair with his band,” I reminded her.
“Duh! He wants you, Lia! He’ll get you on his home turf, miles away from Deputy Sheriff Daddy, and you’re going to come back to NT with a little singing Whatley baby inside you.”
“You’re so weird,” I laughed, “Besides, even if I get to go sing with him, I’m sure my dad will send Robert to keep an eye on me.”
“Sounds like a love triangle to me.” Shelby had long known about my crush on Isaac and Jesse’s dad. She was my only confidante regarding that little nugget.
“Except for the fact that A, there’s no ‘love,’ B, Caleb gets girls way prettier than me, and C, Mr. Cavanaugh probably looks at me like I’m in elementary school, and always will.”
Shelby pushed up a huge imaginary set of breasts. “Yep, you’re built just like a third grader. I bet he’s never noticed how you’ve grown. And, as for Caleb, I don’t care what you say, that boy is in love. It’s so obvious.”
“What’s the deal with Jonah?” I asked, hoping to change the subject from my non-existent love life to hers.
“I’m afraid Ben and Abby are going to make certain my relationship with Jonah remains restricted to sexting and Skyping, either of which, if they knew about, would probably get me, and him, killed. I’m surprised they agreed to let me out of their sight long enough to share a room with you.” Shelby’s parents watched her like a hawk. I expected a bed check from the two of them, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to find her dad, Ben, posted outside our door as a sentry to protect our virtue from any boys we tried to sneak in.
We received a visit from Shelby’s mom Abby, just before 10:00 pm, ostensibly to “tuck us in.” Evidently, at Shelby’s house, getting tucked in means checking under the beds, in the closets, and in the shower for intruders, although I don’t recall any such checks during the countless sleepovers I had at her house growing up.
16
The phone in our room began ringing at 7:00 AM, earlier than either of us planned to rise.
Ian Ion was on the line, and he explained that he’d been at the studio since 4:00 AM trying to reach me. He wanted some one-on-one time with me, without the distraction of record company execs, musicians, or other artists to get in the way. He wanted my “pure” sound.
Travis had warned me that part of Ian’s genius was a healthy dose of eccentricities, such as working all hours, going days on end without sleep when the muse struck, and subsisting on bizarre diets such as going a week or more eating n
othing but Skittles, followed by several days of only celery and popcorn.
But, at the end of the day, he was the best in the business, and Travis assured me that Ian Ion could do things with and to my voice that nobody else could.
Ian told me he had a car waiting outside for me, to get to the studio as soon as possible.
After brushing my teeth and throwing on a casual outfit, I knocked on Robert’s door, since I knew he’d be awake; where we come from, the farmers are up long before the sun rises.
I gasped when he answered.
As was his custom, he’d risen early and eaten a light breakfast. After finishing an exercise routine of pushups and sit-ups that went back to his days as a Marine, he’d taken a shower.
He was glistening, wearing only a towel, the muscles in his arms and chest rippling from the recent workout. His towel was slung low beneath his flat stomach, and he held it closed at his side.
He clearly wasn’t expecting me at such an early hour, and I’m not sure who blushed harder, him or I.
My heart raced and I lowered my gaze, pausing briefly on the bulge pressing against the towel.
“I’m really sorry. I just wanted to tell you that they wanted me at the studio early, well, the producer does. Ian. He sent a car over for me. I didn’t mean to catch you in the shower, I…” I was rambling nervously, and to me, my voice sounded like a child’s.
“It’s no problem, Liane, just let me get dressed and I’ll run you over there,” he replied.
“I didn’t mean for you to have to take me, I just wanted to keep you in the loop, it’s okay, honestly.”
“I made a promise to your father, and I’d be less than a man to break my word already. Go on down to the lobby and get yourself something to eat or some juice, I’ll be right down. And I’ll bring my book and read, I won’t be any bother, you just do your thing.”
