“All I have are these.” And she produced the shoebox full of cassette tapes she’d recorded in her bedroom.
Wyatt Congdon had stared at that box, frowning. And then the frown tipped up into an enigmatic, private little smile that sent surreptitious nervously excited looks ricocheting among his staff.
He’d made them sit with him at a huge conference table and listen to all of those tapes—original songs, covers, fragments of songs interrupted by Glory yelling at John-Mark to get out of her room, random noodling, dogs barking in the background—which took about fifteen hours, all told.
And then a sort of slow-dawning glow spread over his face. It was like watching spring taking over the land. Only maybe slightly more wicked.
His underlings knew that look. They hadn’t seen it in what felt like too long. If they’d had to call it something, it might have been eureka or money.
He was about to do the thing that made him magnificent. See the magic in the seemingly mundane.
Stellium chose ten of Glory’s taped songs, digitally remastered them with a light and skillful hand so that every breath, bird chirp, and door squeak was included (but no yelling at her brother), sneaked them out online as Glory Greenleaf: Live from My Bedroom. The cover artwork just a photo of an old cassette tape labeled with Glory’s handwriting.
And like a match to tinder, reviews, word of mouth, blogs, Twitter, Facebook made downloads treble by the week. People couldn’t get enough of the soulful, hushed intimacy of those stripped-down songs. Her voice as immediate and erotic as a breath in your ear. More than a few babies were conceived to them, and guys who really wanted to impress a girl claimed they were into Glory Greenleaf.
Stellium had barely done a damn thing, let alone spent a damn thing, compared at least to the usual promotional circus for a new artist. They really just wanted to get a brushfire started. To prep the world for the conflagration that would be Glory Greenleaf’s career.
They hadn’t really anticipated Live from My Bedroom . . . charting.
Let alone at number twenty-five.
And “Featherbed” charted as a single at thirty-two.
And then they both began to slide a little.
No worries: It would skyrocket right back up there when Glory Greenleaf: Live at the Misty Cat was released in six months’ time. Live from My Bedroom was the aperitif.
Live, Wyatt Congdon had decided, was the best way to experience Glory Greenleaf.
As it turned out, thanks to experience hashing out shoestring budgets with her mom over the years, Glory was a calmly ruthless and practical negotiator, and armed with a husband who had a law degree and a charmingly cutthroat new agent named Nafisa Patel, whom she’d found with the help of J.T. McCord, they all had an invigoratingly good time hashing out contract terms that favored her immensely. She wasn’t going to get rich overnight, and she didn’t care. She and Eli had taken this opportunity to craft a plan that would let them have the life they wanted and take care of the people they loved, within reason.
Of course, life had a way of chucking monkey wrenches in.
Life had in fact just chucked the sweetest sort of monkey wrench in.
She was aglow with her secret as she submitted to a quick re-glue of her eyelashes and a refreshing of her lipstick. Then she gave the waiting Monroe Porter, whom she’d insisted on hiring for tonight and whose heart was still with death metal but was a Glory Greenleaf fan, a little high five.
She lifted her guitar gently from its stand, where Giorgio had settled it, perfectly tuned.
A couple hundred people, a compact but fancy soundboard, and a film crew of two had been shoehorned into the Misty Cat Cavern for two nights of sold-out shows, the first time, in fact, the Misty Cat Cavern had pre-sold tickets. All of this was Glory’s idea, seconded by Wyatt, and approved by Glenn and Sherrie, given that it was sort of the fulfillment of a promise and a reward for having faith in, and suffering through, an abysmal waitress.
Glenn, a born emcee, stepped in front of the mic to do the honors.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all so much for joining us on this special night. This is the first night in a pair of shows that I’m certain will become music history legend. Hellcat Canyon and the Misty Cat Cavern are proud and pleased to welcome our own . . . Glory Greenleaf.”
The applause and cheers were thunderous.
She smiled through it.
“Sorry we’re running just a little behind, but my pit crew had to re-do my lipstick because I was kissing my man.”
The audience laughed and wooooo’d at this.
“Have you seen him? Can you blame me?” She swept a hand toward him, and the stones on her wedding ring glinted and sparked in the little spotlight. One of the sound guys attempted to swing the light in Eli’s direction. Eli nodded and gamely raised a hand in greeting, accepting the tribute and that little chorus of woooos with dignified aplomb. Yep, she’s mine, I’m hers. We kiss a lot. You try anything, boys, and, well, I’m six foot five. It won’t go well for you.
He was glad the spotlight only managed to swipe him across the neck, and missed his face because he didn’t quite trust his eyes. They might still be a little on the shiny side.
The last thing she’d whispered to him before she’d found her eyelash on his neck was “We’ll name him after your dad.”
“Boys and girls,” she said, as she slung her guitar over her neck. “Never waste a chance to mess your lipstick up on someone you love. You can always just touch it up again, and I’ve learned you don’t always get do-overs. Life is short. Love and music make it worth living.”
As Franco Francone would have said, a little backwoods wisdom.
She almost snorted at herself, though.
Like she knew anything at all.
Despite the major contract, the buzz, and the slew of people devoted to making her career take off, she still kind of felt like she was making it all up on the fly. Though now that she had Eli and her music—everything she’d ever wanted—forming the backbeat of her life, riffing on everything else was a lot easier.
Still, it was like every bit of wisdom she’d ever acquired needed to be re-assessed. Funny how the prospect of becoming a mother could make her feel as blank, as open, as a newborn.
She took her place in front of the mic stand, her guitar protectively warm against her belly, and looked out into the audience. Sprinkled throughout were so many people she loved, either because she actually loved them or because she’d learned to love them because they’d been a part of her life for nearly as long as she could remember and so, by virtue of that, were part of who she was. Her mom was now Mrs. Gary Shaw—they’d gotten married at the Black Oak Country Club, possibly the fanciest thing a Greenleaf had yet done. And they were living in the old Greenleaf house for the time being; her brother John-Mark, thanks to Eli, now had a part-time clerk’s job at the sheriff’s department and was doing well and impressing everyone, though it no doubt helped that he had the eyes of all the deputies on him all day long. Her harried sister, Michelle, was even there. They’d found a sitter for her kids: Rosemary, who ran the Angel’s Nest Bed and Breakfast and loved kids and so longed to adopt kids of her own.
And when she slung her guitar over her neck, it kind of felt like her dad was there, too.
It occurred to her in a flash that her guitar wasn’t going to lie flat like that against her for too much longer, and her heart gave a stabbing, joyous leap.
And Jonah . . . was always present by virtue of how profound his absence was.
Only yesterday she’d been ambivalent about going to see him. Still nursing vestiges of sizzling anger and hurt.
Today, all of that had been completely erased by joy. Grudges were such a waste of time when you could just love someone instead.
She straightened her harmonica strap and gave her hair a flip over her shoulder that little Annelise, out there in the audience, unconsciously immediately mimicked.
She was there with her mom, Eden, and Sherri
e and Glenn. There was Casey Carson and Kayla Benoit, best friends from way back, even if Truck Donegal got between them now and again, and there was Truck, helping Glenn to keep an eye on things. Even Britt Langley and John Tennessee McCord, such lovely people and now counted as good friends of hers and Eli’s, were back from Los Angeles and tucked into a corner so no stranger in the crowd could have a conniption about the presence of a celebrity like J.T. Hellcat Canyon was their permanent home.
Giorgio was up at the mixing board. Turns out he was just as much a savant at mixing sound as he was at conducting the grill. Giorgio understood balance, timing, rhythm, and order. Glory understood that surly guy felt the world kind of like she did: in terms of rhythm and sound. There was more to him than met the eye.
He gave her the thumbs-up.
Justin Chen was there, but not Wyatt Congdon, who was in New York being Wyatt Congdon. He hoped to fly in tomorrow. Casey Carson, Glory had noticed, was eyeing Justin and was getting eyed in return.
The actual The Baby Owls were there, too. She’d met the three of them in Los Angeles: Clement(!)—she couldn’t wait to suggest Clement as a middle name for the baby, just to see Eli’s expression—Stephen, and Billy were sitting out there, blending in pretty well with some of the other bearded types who’d shown up. They were happy to be a part of the story of Glory Greenleaf’s meteoric rise, especially since they got a song out of it (“One Night in Bumfuck,” a song from their next record, sanitized for commercial airplay as “One Night in Nowhere,” was a big hit), and they were mentioned in practically every article about her to date.
She didn’t mention Franco Francone, though. And neither did Wyatt Congdon or any of Stellium’s publicists—who would have taken that connection and run with it—since she’d made that a condition of their contract.
Franco didn’t actually mind. He apparently figured that someday when Glory Greenleaf was sixty and dictating her autobiography to a ghostwriter she could mention that she’d passed up an opportunity to have sex with Franco Francone, and he’d been so stunned he’d sent Wyatt Congdon to her instead. He had a feeling he’d cross paths with Glory again, regardless. He wasn’t eager to cross paths with her husband.
Mainly, right now, Glory was struck by all the new faces in front of her. This would be the shape of her life from now on: more new faces than old. People who’d seen her at The Baby Owls’ show, and spread word of her with evangelical zeal. A couple of people who won tickets to see her in fought-over online contests and were now aiming their eyes at her with shining awe and adulation and anticipation. Glory was suffused with a humble shock: she was doing what she loved, and it made people happy. Did it get any better than that?
These were the first people to see Glory Greenleaf live, apart from the Hellcat Canyon regulars.
They were present for a moment in history.
“Freebird!” someone shouted, predictably.
She laughed. “Careful what you ask for, darlin’.”
And she sang the opening line of that song in public for the first time.
The crowd howled and clapped in amused approval.
One day she would do the whole song.
Maybe . . . even tomorrow night.
If the Stellium Records people had come into this with ideas about keeping this show predictable or in line, they were in for a few surprises. She was Glory Greenleaf Barlow and they were in Hellcat Canyon, after all, where it seemed just about anything could happen.
She looked up at Eli and told herself she would not cry because the eyelash would end up skittering down her face.
He was just going to have to do the misty-eyed bit for both of them. And she’d play “Songbird,” just to tip him right over that edge.
She rocked that crowd, as if they were in her own cradle. As if they were in their own private stadium.
And by the time she wrapped it all up with a tender version of “Permanently Blue,” Marvin Wade slipped whatever internal mental tether had kept him sedately seated for the show and got up to dance, twirling gently around the small expanse of floor like a dandelion set free into the wind. And no one stopped him, because he was just doing what they were all doing inside anyway. Maybe in particular what Glory’s and Eli’s hearts were doing.
And eight months later—on the same day that Eli and Glory first held Zachary Henry Barlow, who surprised no one by entering the world yelling at the top of his lungs and sporting a thick shock of dark hair—the rest of the world was introduced to the first video from Glory Greenleaf: Live at the Misty Cat.
It was just Glory and her guitar on stage alone at the Misty Cat Cavern, suffused in dusty golden morning light, while Marvin Wade danced his slow, swirly dance, going around and around and around.
Acknowledgments
My deepest gratitude to all the hardworking, lovely people at Avon Books for supporting my new contemporary venture, in particular to Tom Egner and his gifted art staff for the sassy, shiny, gorgeous cover; to Jessie Edwards for clever promotional support and cheerleading; and to brilliant editor, May Chen, for her incisive feedback and enthusiasm. My gratitude also to my agent, Steve Axelrod; Karen Crist for good-naturedly submitting to idea-bouncing sessions; and early readers like P.J. Ausdenmore and Janga Rohletter of the Romance Dish, who spread the word about how much you love the book. It means the world to me.
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author JULIE ANNE LONG originally set out to be a rock star when she grew up (and she has the guitars and fringed clothing stuffed in the back of her closet to prove it), but writing was always her first love. Since hanging up her guitar for the computer keyboard, her books frequently top reader and critic polls and have been nominated for numerous awards, including the RITA®, Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice, and the Quill, and reviewers have been known to use words like “dazzling,” “brilliant,” and “impossible to put down” when describing them. Julie lives in Northern California.
Visit Julie at www.julieannelong.com or www.facebook.com/AuthorJulieAnneLong.
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By Julie Anne Long
Wild at Whiskey Creek
Hot in Hellcat Canyon
The Legend of Lyon Redmond
It Started with a Scandal
Between the Devil and Ian Eversea
It Happened One Midnight
A Notorious Countess Confesses
How the Marquess Was Won
What I Did for a Duke
I Kissed an Earl
Since the Surrender
Like No Other Lover
The Perils of Pleasure
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
wild at whiskey creek. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition DECEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780062397645
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062397638
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