Gena said that would be very nice.
And she said she was looking forward to meeting Tim Fine. When he arrived, she recognized him from the photos. He was older than Sonny by about ten years, and they’d met when Tim, a music producer, had found Sonny tucked away in the foothills of the Smokies. He’d recognized his talent and turned him into a mega-star. The affection between the two men was apparent.
The introductions were made. Brittney, who had gone into the office to take care of some work while Gena got the tour, joined them for lunch, and then it was a visit to the horse barn, an imposing structure not like any barn Gena had ever seen. This was more like a small hotel, with stalls for eight horses and a fully furnished apartment upstairs for the groom, Linus, who, when they arrived, was in the wash bay, bathing one of the horses. The animals were indeed very beautiful, all gleaming black and proud and perfect specimens of their breed. Sonny walked along the stalls, greeting each horse, being nuzzled by them.
Gena was impressed. “Your horses really are beautiful,” she said. “And they’ll make wonderful pictures in the article.”
“You should show her Belinda,” Brittney said to Sonny, laughing. And to Gena she added, “Sonny thinks Belinda is beautiful, too.”
“There’s all kinds of beauty, Brittney,” Sonny said. And to Gena he said, “Come on. Let’s go meet Belinda. Brittney is always making fun of her, but yeah, I do think she’s beautiful.”
And Gena followed him out to the pasture behind the barn. Sonny whistled. And from the far side of the pasture, a horse came loping over to them. This was no gleaming black beauty. Big, she was, though. Ungainly big. And with the weirdest coloring and markings Gena had ever seen on any horse—even on a fantasy horse. For one thing, Belinda looked as though whoever made her couldn’t decide if she was brown or black and white. Her front half was the color of caramel. But from her withers back, all the way over her rump and down her hind legs, she was painted in great, swirling swaths of black against white. Or maybe it was the other way around. She looked like a Native American blanket. For a horse, Belinda looked decidedly undecided. In addition, her mane was golden and her tail was gray.
“She’s so tall,” Gena said. “I’m just a city girl and I don’t know horses, but your Belinda looks awfully tall to me.”
“I think she may have some Percheron in her,” Sonny said. “Percherons run pretty tall.” Belinda nuzzled Sonny’s neck fondly and he stroked her muzzle. “But she is so beautiful to me,” he said. “Look at that sweet face. Look at the way she looks at me, with those beautiful eyes. She knows I love her.” Belinda put her head on Sonny’s shoulder and he stroked her soft cheek. “There isn’t another horse on this earth that looks like my Belinda. She is absolutely all herself, not an imitation or a type. She doesn’t conform to any standard. She’s just proudly herself. And isn’t that beautiful?”
* * * *
Brittney drove her into Merryville, a fifteen-minute drive away, where Lady Fair’s travel people had booked a hotel room for her. Over a couple of drinks in the hotel’s tidy little restaurant, the two women worked out a plan for Lady Fair’s crew to come down to Tennessee to do a photo shoot, a plan that wouldn’t conflict with Sonny’s tour schedule. And they agreed to meet in the morning at nine so Sonny could show her his childhood home. They’d have her at the Knoxville airport in time for her two-thirty flight and she’d be home by five.
“And now,” Gena said, “tell me more about that horse. Belinda. She’s so weird looking, and Sonny seems to love her so much. I have a feeling there’s a story there.”
“No. No story, really. She’s just the first horse Sonny ever owned. He’s had her since he was a kid, and he just loves her. He was about fourteen, fifteen, and feeling like there was no future for him—you know, the way we all feel when we’re adolescent, all confused and bleak—and he was walking in the woods, and there she was. She just came out of nowhere, pretty thin and ragged, with nothing to show where she belonged, and she just attached herself to him. And he took her home and cleaned her up and fed her, and I guess she’s his friend the way only an animal can be. Sonny had a pretty hard life growing up, and he needed a friend, and I guess Belinda became that friend. I think somehow she gave him the confidence to let his singing be heard. And he thinks she’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Maybe because he loves her. I guess that’s it. If you love something, then it’s beautiful. That’s all. You can hear that in his music. When he sings about love, he’s singing about something that’s beautiful.” Brittney picked the mint sprig out of her drink and nibbled on it. “Have you ever heard that concert performance he did in London? It was all over the Internet at the time.”
“I remember,” Gena said. “You Are So Beautiful.”
“That’s the one.”
“I plan to listen to it later on tonight, after I have dinner. Dinah Featherington had it highlighted in her notes.”
“Then you’re all set. That’s all you’ll need. I have to leave you now. It’s three o’clock on the coast, and I have calls to make.”
“And I’ll have dinner and then review what we did today.”
“Ciao.”
“Bye, now.”
* * * *
The room they’d booked for her was clean and quiet, and Gena realized she really did need to gather her wits. What a day it had been. But first off, she had to call Warren.
Wait till he hears what a day I’ve had!
Her head was full of Sonny’s “cabin in the woods” and the horses. The moment she heard Warren’s voice, the excitement poured out.
“Oh, Warren. What a day! Sonny Gaile is a doll. He really is. So much nicer than I expected, and so much more interesting.”
Warren said nothing for a moment. Then he said, “Who’s Sonny Gaile?”
Now Gena had to pause, surprised, before she said, “I texted you.”
She could tell he was trying to remember.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I saw it. I forgot. I’ve been busy. Tied up all day and I forgot you were away. You texted you were going to Tennessee. And who’s this Sonny Gaile you had to see?”
“I thought you knew. Everyone knows who Sonny Gaile is.”
“Never heard of him.”
She was a little deflated. “You could have Googled him.”
“C’mon, Gena. I have a life.”
“He’s the latest rage in country music. Everyone’s listening to him.”
“Not quite everyone. I never heard of him.”
“Lady Fair sent me to do an article on him. He’s a big deal, and it’s a big deal for me, getting to do a story on him. And I’ve had such a great day, so exciting, and all day I wished you were here with me to share it. Let me tell you—”
“Listen, hon. I’m with some guys from the office right now, having dinner. Now’s not a good time. When are you getting back?”
“I told you, in my text. Tomorrow. Maybe late afternoon.”
“And you’ll be with this Sonny guy?” She could hear how uninterested he was.
“Like I said. You could Google him.”
Warren didn’t even pick up on her irritation.
“Nah, I’ll leave the country-boy research to you. You have time for that stuff. Just one thing, though. Do you think you could get yourself back here by six tomorrow night? There’s a thing at Manish’s house. The Parikhs are having a little party, just a few couples, and I said we’d be there.”
Manish Parikh was Warren’s branch manager, and Gena knew it was important to Warren to get an invitation like this. And she liked the Parikhs. Good people.
“I don’t know, Warren. I’ll try, but it’ll be close. You know I’ll try.”
“Yeah, well, you do that. This matters to me.”
“Of course, Warren.”
“Listen, Gena.” She could practically feel his impatience t
hrough the phone. “I gotta go,” he said. Then he was gone.
And Gena held a dead connection in her hand.
She stared at the phone till the screen went black.
Then she turned it back on and found the YouTube video from London, the one that went viral last year, and she listened to young Sonny Gaile’s remarkably mature performance of the classic song.
* * * *
Sonny arrived while Gena was having her pancakes and sausages. “Brittney’s got herself tied up with some client in London,” he said. “She’ll catch up with us later and get you to the airport in time for your flight. Anyway, she’s seen it all before.”
He slid into a chair at her table and nibbled on a breadstick from the buffet.
“Is it a long drive to your old home?”
“No. It’s just about five miles up the road. You probably didn’t notice, but you passed it on the way to my place yesterday.”
He was a little slumped in his chair, and he didn’t look comfortable.
“Are you okay with this, Sonny?”
‘No, it’s okay. I said I’d do it. So I’ll do it.”
Gena remembered that there hadn’t been much in Dinah’s notes about Sonny’s childhood. Just a scrawl at the top: “rags-to-riches.” And “big family.” And “be gentle.”
Gena stood up and got her stuff together.
“Well, then. If you’re ready, I’m ready. Let’s go.”
* * * *
It wasn’t more than ten minutes away. Sonny pulled the SUV off to one side of the road and stopped there. “This is it,” he said. “This is where I grew up.” He had stopped in a weedy sort of clearing, an overgrown and ragged-looking space. Set farther back from the road, maybe thirty feet, in the shade where the trees were gradually encroaching, there was a house. Or, at least, there were the remnants of a house. More like a shack, actually, maybe a single room, not more than two. It had been painted white, once, a long time ago, but time and weather had flaked off most of its paint. A sagging door, broken windows, a couple of steps fallen from its front—and no sign of life. A casual passerby might have thought it was an abandoned storage shed or an animal shelter.
Sonny got out of the car and Gena came around to join him. He stood with his hands stuck into the back pockets of his jeans and stared at the place. For a long time he said nothing. Then, finally, after a deep sigh, he said, “This was my home, Miss Shaw. This is where I grew up.”
“Is it okay to go in?” Gena asked.
“Sure,” Sonny said. “I own the place now.”
The shack turned out to have a main front room and a second smaller room to the back. Along one wall, there was a small, scratched-up, old-fashioned kitchen table of cream-colored metal with a flower design along the edge and two wooden chairs. There was a cast-iron cookstove to one side and a big tub with a large plank of wood over it for a countertop, but no sign of running water. There was a big bed in the back room and a sleeping loft with two mattresses—one for the boys and one for the girls. And a moldy, sour smell over everything.
“How many of you were there?” Gena asked.
“There was my ma and my pa and seven of us kids. I’m the oldest.”
“Where are they now?”
Sonny’s face lit up. “I been able to get them a new place, over by Merryville. A real nice house, with running water and indoor toilets and everything. And a big kitchen for Ma, and enough bedrooms so the boys can sleep separate from the girls. Growing up, we all went to school over in Merryville, but now they don’t have to wait for a school bus to come and take them. Close enough now they can walk. Long as people like my music, there’ll be enough money so they all have proper clothes and shoes and everything they need.”
Then Sonny spoke very quietly, not looking directly at Gena. “The thing is, Miss Shaw, I’ve been interviewed a lot this last year or so, but I didn’t feel right about letting people know this much about where I come from. No one’s ever been to this place with me, before—no writer, that is, no reporters or people from TV. Truth is, I haven’t wanted them to see it. Or to know that much about me.
“But I decided, finally, that it isn’t right to hide it. There’s plenty about where I grew up that people should know, and when that other lady, Ms. Featherington, called about a story for Lady Fair, I decided the time was right and I was ready.
“So here’s the thing, Miss Shaw, you gotta write in your story that we had a lot of good stuff growing up here. The air is clean—not like in the big cities—and there were the birds in the morning to wake us up, and the sound of the wind in the trees. And being so close in this small place, and sleeping together in one bed, we had to get along. We had music, we had each other—and we had good parents who wouldn’t let us be anything but good people. So this home, this little ramshackle place, was a happy home. And that’s what I want you to write. The truth. You understand? Because there’s beauty here. Lots of beauty. And I want you to look around”—here Sonny gestured around the flaking, decrepit, two-room shack—“and I want you to see that there’s beauty here. And I want you to write about that.”
Chapter Thirteen
At the airport. Boarding soon. Been great. Can’t wait 2 tell u all about it.
C U at home. Or at Parikhs if after 6.
Dress up. Where’s the dog? With U?
Of course not. With Viv.
Gena added a few happy emoji. She was feeling great; her head was full of great story ideas, and all was right with the world. Sonny had spent an hour with her sitting at the kitchen table, and he’d shared with her the story of the life that had carried him from the shack along the side of the road to the so-called cabin on his one hundred and eighty acres of rolling countryside. It had been a fascinating morning, and it would be a fascinating story to tell on the pages of Lady Fair.
A tie-up on the Grand Central Parkway delayed her trip from LaGuardia back to East Seventy-Third Street. The apartment was empty but there was a note on the kitchen counter:
Couldn’t wait. See you at the Parikhs.
Try not to be too late.
Viv called. She’ll bring the dog back then.
She and Dan will be at the party.
* * * *
The mood at the Parikhs’ home matched Gena’s mood: high energy and good cheer. It wasn’t a large group, just a few couples, including Viv and Dan, who’d been friends with Stephanie and Manish Parikh before Warren had even joined the firm. Glasses were tinkling and music was playing quietly and the conversation was convivial without being boisterous. Manish was seeing to it that everyone’s glass stayed full and Stephanie was being her usual simple-but-elegant self, attending to everyone and being sure everyone was having a good time. When Gena arrived, Warren and Manish were deep in a discussion about the latest interest rate swap they’d negotiated, and Stephanie had just joined the group gathered around the coffee table, bringing with her a platter of shrimp. Dan and Viv were together on the sofa and waved Gena over. And Manish, when he saw that Gena had come in, nodded to Warren that they should join her.
“Glad you finally made it,” Warren said to her as he pulled up a chair to join the group. And under his breath, “What took you so long?”
Gena just shrugged. She didn’t think she was so late. Half an hour for an open-ended, casual party like this?
“Well, don’t you look great,” Viv said as Dan scooted over to make room on the sofa. “You’re absolutely glowing. What’s up?”
“Warren said you were away on an assignment,” Dan said.
“Yeah,” Warren said. “Some country singer I never heard of.”
Dan spooned a bit of cocktail sauce onto his plate and dipped a shrimp into it. “Who?”
“Oh, Dan. Wait’ll I tell you. Not just ‘some singer.’” She got a napkin settled on her lap. She preened a little. She knew she was showing off, but it felt so exciti
ng to be saying it. “I have just flown down to Tennessee to spend a couple of days with…” She paused to let the effect build up. “With Sonny Gaile!”
“Wow!” Dan turned to look at her admiringly. “You didn’t! Oh, good for you, Gena. Sonny Gaile!”
“I never heard of him,” Warren repeated.
‘What do you mean,” Dan said to Warren, “you never heard of him? Never heard of Sonny Gaile? What planet have you been living on?”
“Big deal. I never heard of him. So sue me!” Warren looked irritated. “I don’t listen to country music.”
“Neither do I,” said Manish, who was standing behind Warren, adding some more wine to his glass and enjoying the conversation. “But even I have seen his photos all over the Internet.”
“Yes,” said Dan. “Sonny Gaile is the latest phenomenon in musical heartthrobs. His name is everywhere. Even I know the name. And the face. Young kid. Nice looking. Where has your head been this last year?”
“My head has been busy doing my job, thank you. Not busy getting distracted by fluff.”
Dan shook his head and turned back to Gena. “So what’s he like? Tell us all about him.”
“Yes, yes,” Viv burst in. “You lucky thing. I want to hear everything. Is he as cute as his pictures? Did he sing for you? Did you get to see his home? Tell us everything. Start at the beginning.”
“Okay, you guys. I’ll tell you everything.”
She was about to start, but Manish said, “First you must have some wine. Let me bring you a glass.” In a few steps, he went to a sideboard, which had been put to use as a bar, poured a glass of wine, and brought it back to Gena. “You must have a proper wine to accompany your story,” he said.
Who Do You Love? Page 6
