Small Town Girl

by Rice, Patricia

  She rushed off to welcome their guests before Flint could discern the significance of that. He couldn’t believe the record company was blind enough to believe that she was anything less than the next star on their horizon. Why in hell weren’t they offering her a recording contract? They were about to make lemonade out of the lawsuit lemon and couldn’t see the potential of chiffon pie. He’d have to put a flea in his publisher’s ear. A singer made a heck of a lot more than a writer.

  “She’s going to be famous, isn’t she?” Amy murmured.

  “She deserves it,” he grunted. And she’d been smart enough not to have kids who would be hurt by her career. Smarter than he had been.

  Amy shot him a sympathetic look. He didn’t want pity. He just wanted this next week to be over so he could figure out what to do next. Maybe he could write songs for Jo.

  He wanted to write songs with Jo. That should have shocked him, but he was beyond shock by now. Jo had lit his drab world like fireworks, opened up possibilities. He’d have to return the favor. He’d already sent her new song to the publisher and the Barn Boys like he’d told her he would. Once she made her choice, he would make a few calls to be certain she got noticed. He still had some influence in Nashville.

  Friday night before the big concert meant tourists and music groupies were crawling all over town. The gift shops and antique stores had stayed open, and the restaurant boomed. Rational discussion was impossible. Flint made coffee and iced tea and meat loaves, sliced Amy’s chickens, and tried not to drop dishes when he served customers. In between, he helped his sons clear tables and fill the dishwasher. His hand ached like hell, but he couldn’t help savoring his brief success. He could have made the restaurant work if life hadn’t kept whopping him upside the head.

  He had taken the new electric beater from Amy to figure out why it wasn’t working when shouts of excitement at the door warned him to look up.

  RJ sauntered in, his wavy blond hair styled to perfection, his subtly embroidered black silk shirt screaming designer, and the bling on his fingers broadcasting wealth. Or debt deeper than he could pay, Flint figured.

  “Randy!” some of the locals called in welcome.

  Randy brushed them off. Flint watched as his ex-friend scanned the room, not even noticing Flint behind the counter but focusing on Jo. Even though her calf-length silk skirt was modest by Jo’s standards, her strapless red top gleamed against the silver-blues and purples of the café. Combined with Jo’s shiny gold hair and bright smile, she was impossible to miss.

  As was RJ. The two of them stared at each other over a sea of heads. Damn, but they made a beautiful pair. Some PR flack back in Nashville would be drooling gravy.

  Flint handed the beater to Amy as RJ headed straight for Joella.

  ***

  “Get your hands off me,” Jo muttered when Randy caught her arm and tried to steer her away from her customer.

  “That’s all right, dearie,” Ina said cheerfully. “I can pour my own tea. You go talk to your pretty fella.”

  “You’re looking good, Jo,” Randy said with the sincere admiration that had turned her head once before. And with the same tenacity that she had once thought manly, he didn’t release her arm. Flint had taught her that a real man listened instead of forcing himself on others.

  “I have a car outside. Let’s go somewhere quiet and talk.” Randy tugged at her.

  Jo jerked her elbow away and propped her hands on her hips. She could see Flint winding his way through the crowded room in her direction. In her heart of hearts, she was thrilled that he would come to her rescue even after their disagreement, but she was taking Randy down on her own. “I’m working, and there is no such place as quiet around here if you had eyes in your head for anyone but yourself.”

  “Jo, I know you’re mad, but I just talked to Martin at the record label, and he says everything will be fine once we work out our differences. You don’t have to sue me to get money, Jo. We’ll be rich. You’re too good for this two-bit job.” Randy flashed his most charming smile, the one that used to make her swoon. Now all she noticed was the cheap silver fillings in his back teeth.

  She’d learned her lesson all right. She would never follow another selfish, shallow man down that long lonesome highway. Flint had opened her eyes to a world of possibilities, and instead of tearing her down to build himself up, he’d encouraged her and offered his help, even if it meant her leaving him. She couldn’t believe she’d actually valued herself so little that she’d thought a lying Ratfink was her only path out of here.

  Flint came up behind Randy, but her hero didn’t do anything except cross his muscled arms and wait for his cue. Jo wanted to kiss him for that, and for a lot of other reasons, but she had to get even with him for the brains in her boobs line first.

  “I like my two-bit job,” she said sweetly, taking one fight at a time. “And I think you’re belly-crawling, low-life scum to come back here and try to talk me out of what is mine since you can’t get away with outright theft. I don’t need you to make my fortune.”

  “Now, Jo, you know you don’t know this business like I do. You need me, girl. The crowd’s all down in Asheville. I’ll take you clubbing and introduce you to a few people. You’ll be a sensation.” He snaked an arm around her waist and drew her toward him.

  She’d forgotten how much she hated Randy’s spicy cologne. If he patted her on the ass, she was taking him down right now. She shoved out of his embrace.

  “Need help, Joella?” Flint asked in a disturbingly flat tone.

  Randy’s head jerked around at the sound of a familiar voice. “Flint?” he asked in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Helping me get back what is mine, RJ,” Jo said. “It might cost Flint every penny he earned, but he did what was right. Do you get that at all, RJ?”

  “Now, honey, you know how it is when you get all caught up in the excitement. I meant to do right by you. I’m here now.” Randy patted her reassuringly—on her ass.

  Without a second thought, Jo plowed her fist into his midsection.

  Randy grunted, grabbed his abdomen, and doubled over in pain.

  “Are you hearing no, yet, Randy?” she inquired politely, keeping her bruised and aching fist balled up and in sight. “Or do I need to speak a little louder?”

  “I think he got the message. If not, he can sniff around later when we’re not so busy.” Flint grabbed the collar of Randy’s silk shirt and steered him toward the door. Every head in the place turned to stare.

  Jo knew she wasn’t strong enough to really hurt him. She figured the big oaf was pretending hurt just to keep from facing the stares. Randy sure lacked abs of steel, though.

  “How’s your hand?” Amy asked, hurrying up to hug her.

  “Wishing it could do it again,” Jo retorted. “Wishing I had smashed the scum’s jaw while I was at it. Now I understand why men have fistfights.”

  Which woke both of them up. With muttered uh oh’s, they raced for the front door.

  Hoss jumped up from his place at the counter, and placed his brawny arm across the doorway. “Uh-uh, ladies. You go back to making pretty. I don’t know what just went on here, but I reckon Flint is taking care of bidness. You don’t need to be gettin’ involved.”

  Jo could hear what kind of business they were taking care of. Two solid blows and a muffled groan told the whole story. She supposed Flint had as much or more right to lay Randy out as she did, but she didn’t want Flint hurting his injured hand.

  She darted under Hoss’s outstretched arm and into the street where a crowd had already begun to form. Flint was just hauling Randy off the sidewalk, dusting him off in an elaborate charade of gallantry before shoving his ex-partner into Slim’s arms. Randy’s former band member looked disgruntled but grabbed Randy’s shirt to hold him up. Slim and the band had just learned about the plagiarism and had worked up a fine rage for Jo’s sake—and maybe a bit of their own—these last few days.

  At Jo’s arri
val, RJ glared, wincing as he spoke through a cut lip. “Didn’t take you long to find another sucker for sleeping your way out of here, did it?” he asked in scorn.

  Stretching his injured hand, Flint halted in midflex and balled up his fingers. Jo caught his arm before he could swing again. He had muscles of steel and could easily shake her off, but he obliged her by refraining. “There are better ways of getting even,” she reminded him. “Remember tomorrow.”

  With Flint in charge of the Mill-Aid committee, Randy had been demoted to the bottom of the play list. He’d be lucky to have a few drunks sleeping it off in the audience by the time he reached the stage.

  Flint nodded in recognition of what she was saying. With a flare of fire in his eyes, he captured Jo’s elbow and steered her into the café with a proprietary grip.

  She liked Flint’s hand on her far too well. She loved walking by his side, and having him take her part put her in orbit. And she wished she knew if he felt the same, or if he hated her. She wondered if she punched Flint in the stomach, if he’d spill his guts.

  “I’ll let Slim introduce him tomorrow,” he growled. “I sure the hell won’t.”

  “No one can expect you to emcee all day and night,” she agreed. Nothing like a joint enemy to make allies. But she wanted Flint as more than an ally. She was tired of guessing where they stood. Tonight, she had to make some tough decisions. She wished Flint would help her, but he was making it pretty plain that he was staying out of her business. Fine then. Two could play that game. She just wished she was as good at it as he was.

  She glanced around the restaurant and found Adam and Johnnie staring at them with worry and awe. She winked at them, and they grinned in relief.

  She hadn’t told Flint about their surprise. They’d thought it up all by themselves, and she’d only helped a little. Let Flint think she was the one who had used the songwriting contest application.

  “The record company is taking me to dinner tonight,” she murmured. “Elise will be there. Don’t pinch me. I don’t want to wake up.”

  Flint’s eyes looked powerfully sad as he released her arm. “You’re not dreaming, sweetheart. The kingdom is yours for the asking.”

  She had enough experience to know kingdoms turned into pumpkins at midnight, but she couldn’t help hoping maybe this time, the glass slipper wouldn’t break if she said the right words.

  Twenty-eight

  Holding a crystal glass of champagne, Jo settled back on the tapestried bench seat and gazed around the elegant restaurant to which the record people had brought her. The last time she’d had champagne had been in Atlanta when He-Who had seduced her before putting her out on the strip club stage. She didn’t like the taste of champagne any better now than she had then.

  But she’d never been in a restaurant like this, and she was soaking up the ambiance. They’d even painted the ceiling. She bet Dot could paint something more original than fish swimming in seaweed.

  She was perfectly aware that she was hiding behind denial, pretending she hadn’t reached a crossroad that would decide the rest of her life. Flint had done everything except kick her out the door to point her in the right direction. She was sure one of these days she would be mature enough to thank him for not making promises he couldn’t keep. That time wasn’t now, though. She wanted to throttle him for leaving her to sink or swim on her own.

  This should be her Cinderella night at the ball. She should be dancing around the ballroom in joy at finally accomplishing her dreams. But damn it, she still needed her prince to make the magic work. Dancing alone sucked. This business nattering sure as hell couldn’t rev her engines like the seductive tango she’d performed with Flint.

  Champagne and fancy restaurants weren’t as magical as a stormy night on a leather sofa making music with Flint.

  She had the world at her feet, and she couldn’t enjoy it without a man who hadn’t said he loved her. Would she ever learn?

  Martin, the guy the suits were kissing up to, interrupted her internal squabble. “It’s a shame RJ is indisposed this evening. He’s been looking forward to seeing you again, Joella. He could tell you all about our plans.”

  Indisposed. Jo hid her smirk. She was so glad Flint had relieved her of the bastard’s presence on this, her evening of triumph.

  “We can get you out in front of the public this weekend,” Martin continued. “You can go on with RJ so we can see if you’re as good as we’ve been told, and the Barn Boys might let you do a little backup with them. If you’ve got what it takes, we can start the rumor mill rolling so your name is on everyone’s tongue. RJ’s making a follow-up album. You can do a duet or two with him. By the time you have enough original material ready for your own CD, everyone will know who you are.”

  Maybe she ought to start listening instead of gliding along on daydreams. Since when had they started talking about her singing in front of an audience? Jo glanced at Elise to see if she had any reaction.

  Her lawyer was sipping champagne and watching everyone at the table with a noncommittal expression. Jo would give good money for Elise’s style. Even though the lawyer wore a navy designer suit with sequined trim and a black silk shell that displayed her bosom to good effect, she didn’t look out of place here as Jo did. Jo wanted to learn how to do that, but she figured it took money to be flashy and not trashy.

  Martin was promising to make her dreams come true. Jo knew better than to trust promises—especially when they saved the promisee a nasty lawsuit. She remained silent, turning to Elise for corroboration.

  “We haven’t agreed to the terms of the settlement yet, gentlemen,” Elise said in her pleasantly modulated lawyer voice. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “It won’t hurt to have her out there, just in case,” wheedled one of the suits. “If all goes well, we can put her on RJ’s tour bus, doing the shows. We can settle the last few terms over lunch when we’re back in Nashville.”

  They weren’t waiting for her to speak, so Jo swirled the champagne and listened, her heart pounding erratically in anxiety and expectation. Flint seemed to think she had brains. Maybe she ought to apply them instead of panicking.

  With the insight he’d taught her, she understood these city slickers were simply Randy in fancy suits. She might have stars in her eyes, but her family’s future as well as her own rode on making the right decision. To sue or not to sue…

  She prayed she had the strength and wisdom Flint thought she had, because she sure felt dumber than a doorknob and more scared than a wide-eyed babe.

  ***

  “No, Harry, the boom lights are for the stage!” Flint shouted in the maelstrom that was the mill barn an hour before the first act played.

  The Buzzards were taking the warm-up spot, followed by the contest winner singing their song with Buzzards for backup. The band had practiced the songs from the finalists in the barn all week. At least he’d finally pried the drums out of his back room.

  His cell rang, and Flint slid it open with his bad hand while carting one of the bass amps to the front of the stage with the other. Fist fighting with RJ hadn’t helped the pain much, but it was good to know he could still form a fist if he had to.

  He was trying very hard not to think about what decision Jo had given the Nashville suits last night. He had no claim on her. She was free to fly where she willed.

  “Yeah?” he shouted into the phone. “Hey, Travis. You climbed out of the grotto yet?” Diverted by his friend’s laughter and description of the decadent spa in Asheville’s finest resort, he grinned. The guys could afford it.

  “Yeah, we have bus parking. Get your asses up here and enjoy the music. It’s nostalgia time. You won’t believe this place.” Flint set down the amp to sign a receipt for the drink concession and glanced over the huge mill interior. They’d rented every folding chair in the mountains, it looked like. And every one of them was sold out.

  Johnnie ran up to show him shots he’d taken with his digital camera of the arts and crafts boo
ths lining the field around the parking lot. After assuring Travis all was in place for their arrival, Flint stuck his cell phone back on its clip and admired the photos in the camera’s window.

  “Man, how many of those pillows do they have?” he asked, studying the shot of Jo’s mother and her cronies standing in a tent stacked with colorful pillows and throws.

  “About ten million. And they’re asking buckets of money for them. Amy says the rich tourists won’t think they’re any good unless they pay a lot. The parking lot is filling up, and there’s people everywhere. Can we go up in the loft to take pictures?”

  “Sure ’nuff. But stay out of their way up there. The booms are dangerous.”

  “Aw, Dad.” Johnnie brushed off his warning with a teenager’s indifference. “Is Jo here? Mama Sanderson wanted to talk to her.” He took the camera back and flipped through the pictures again.

  “I thought she was out there somewhere. If you see her, tell her I need to talk with her, too. Run tell Dave that the concessions are here, willya?” Flint waved Johnnie off as his phone rang again.

  Hanging up on that call, he hastily punched the programmed number for Jo’s apartment. Surely she wasn’t sleeping through the big day? She hadn’t called him when she got in last night, so he figured the record company honchos had kept her out late. He was trying real hard not to fret while he waited to hear what she’d decided, but he itched under his collar something fierce.

  He got her answering machine. Jo didn’t have any assignment except as gopher, but that was an important task with their limited budget. He didn’t understand her refusal to use her glorious voice up on stage today, but given what he knew about her past experience, he wouldn’t push her. She had to be here somewhere, or on her way. He hung up his cell. Setting aside the cowboy hat he usually wore on stage, he swung up the ladder to straighten out Harry and the lights.