“Thanks.”
“In return, write a damn song. Only three to go, and you’re done with this album.”
“I can’t.” Taft considered groaning again, but Sully was getting that sharp tone to his voice. More moaning wouldn’t be tolerated. “Every time I try, all I get is crap.”
“Then give me a crap song. You think the label will know the difference?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll tell them it’s a first draft.”
“You have to have some words on a page to call it a draft, and I ain’t got nothing but the words flipping around in here–” he tapped his forehead, “–like goldfish trying to get away from a cat.”
Sully’s eyebrows drew together. “You’ve never had trouble with writing like this before.”
“Yeah, well. Now I am. How’s Ellen doing?”
Sully scowled. “Don’t change the subject.”
“Honestly, I’m not. I’ve been thinking about her. I got a wooden spoon from Thailand from a friend who just came back from there. I’ll bring it to her this weekend.”
Sully’s eyes softened. “That woman and her spoon collection. You know some online magazine called her to talk about it? She grinned like a kid for a week.”
“She deserves some happiness.” Taft loved Sully’s wife, a woman with a sweet voice and even sweeter eyes. The cancer had thinned her, leaving her bald and too skinny, but she still had every drop of sweetness she’d ever possessed.
“She’s got me!”
“Who could ask for more?” His tone was teasing, but Taft was serious. He had rarely seen a man more devoted to anything or anyone than Sully was to Ellen. “Give her my love.”
“Will do.” Sully popped a mint into his mouth and sucked. He spoke around it, the mint clacking on his teeth. “Back to your writing. What’s wrong with you?”
Wrong? Taft was a fraud.
He was an imposter.
And that was a secret he’d never share with Sully, a man he loved almost as much as he’d loved his father. Taft would take the secret to his grave. Which, at this point, was probably only a few years away since he’d obviously never write another song and he’d never have another hit. He’d lose all his money and he’d die of exposure from living under a bridge somewhere. “Nothing’s wrong,” he replied. “I just can’t find my mojo.” And that was the truth. Despite his recent lack of self-belief, he had always been able to write, but lately his willpower had decided to abandon him.
In his no-bullshit voice, Sully barked, “Where’d you leave it?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have this problem.” If only Taft could buy the mojo from someplace. Go into a store and hand over enough money to purchase it back. At this point, he’d give almost anything to find it.
Trouble was, it had been taken from him, and it damned sure wasn’t coming back.
“Is it because you bought ‘Blame Me?’”
Taft shut his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t even like to think about that song.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“I know.” It was at the top of two charts, number one in country and in pop.
“You’re going to have to sing it on stage until the day you die, so you might as well get right with it.”
“But it’s not my song.”
Sully made a loud, impatient noise – it reminded Taft of the sound a horse gave when it was being directed the way it didn’t want to go. “It’s yours. You paid for it. That’s what everyone does.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve never done it before.”
“You never had to. But if the well dries up, you don’t go without water, do you? You drive to town and you fill up your – your, um, cistern, or something.”
“Your metaphor’s a little ragged.”
Sully cracked his mint with a snap of his teeth. “Is it the money? The royalties going to her?”
“Of course not.” Taft was nowhere near bridge-living just yet. There were still so many dollars in his bank accounts that it didn’t quite make sense sometimes to him, and “Blame Me” was just pouring more money in, download after download.
“Well, are you embarrassed? That you co-wrote a song with someone? Just because you’d never done it before doesn’t make it a shameful thing.”
“I didn’t co-write it.” Lana Darling had written it. He’d changed the point of view and a few pronouns, that was all.
“Get over it, boy. Every country star co-writes or buys songs. How many of them lie about it, straight up?”
Taft groaned again. “A few.”
Sully jabbed a finger in Taft’s direction. “A few? Most of ’em. You don’t know the things I know, and because of non-disclosure agreements, you’re never going to. But I can tell you this, most singers – and I’m talking about singers you respect – buy songs outright and never tell anyone.”
Taft shifted in the uncomfortable chair. “What about the royalties? They have to send them to the songwriter.”
Sully raised his arms above his head. “This never occurred to you? That some people don’t play that way? You were raised in the scene. How does the son of Palmer Hill,–” Sully crossed himself, “–may he rest in peace, not know how Nashville works?”
“You can’t keep that kind of thing secret,” Taft said. “Songwriters would talk eventually.”
“Not if they were paid extra – a hell of a lot extra – to keep their mouths shut about it.”
“You mean, buy them out?” Taft was genuinely shocked.
“You never even considered that was a thing?”
No, Taft had never thought about the idea. Why would he have? His whole life, he’d watched his father write his own songs. Taft had learned at Palmer’s knee how ideas took shape into words. First just a few, the rumbling of an idea. Then a phrase, caught in writing if you were lucky, if you always carried your lucky pencil in your pocket like Palmer had.
Taft had followed in those hallowed footsteps. He even carried the same damn mechanical pencil, given to him by his father. The pencil was a 1924 Wahl Eversharp in engraved sterling silver with a chevron pattern, and with it, Taft had written all his own songs. He’d made them hits, just like his father had before him.
Then, suddenly, Taft had stopped being able to write. “Why didn’t you get me to buy out that girl, then?” he asked.
“By that girl, you mean Lana Darling?”
Taft had no real yen to say her name out loud. “Yeah.”
“I asked if you wanted me to explore that option with her.”
“You did?”
Sully raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember.”
Of course Taft didn’t.
Lana Darling was the worst sex he’d ever had.
One-night stands were supposed to be fun. They were supposed to be exciting and awesome and dangerous and hot. They were not supposed to make a man feel like a failure, like he didn’t know the female body (he did know it), like he didn’t even really know how to kiss a girl (he knew that, too).
She’d been a bad idea, followed by an even worse one – to buy her song and make himself accountable to paying her royalties for the rest of their natural-born lives, and then some, since royalties kept right on being paid even after death.
If Sully had mentioned it, Taft sure as hell hadn’t heard him when he’d said it. After all, he’d been trying so hard not to think of the way Lana’s mouth had tasted – of sweet berries and the wine they’d had and something richer, darker. He’d been trying to forget what had happened after he’d kissed her – the way the heat had leaped between them, a fire that neither of them had had to work to stoke. It had blazed.
Taft would pay good money to have someone remove the memories of what had happened next. The way nothing had gone right, even though everything had felt like it should. Their limbs had tangled awkwardly. From their mouths fusing like they’d been made to kiss each other, they’d gone to two separate bodies who’d been obviously never meant to fit together in the same bed
.
It had been an embarrassment. Taft had a pretty good idea that he’d been the most embarrassing part of the equation.
Sully smacked his hands on the enormous desktop, snapping Taft out of his reverie. “I’ve got an idea. Go write some more songs with her.”
Like Taft hadn’t thought about it every day since that night. Like it had never occurred to him. “Nope.”
“No, it’s great. Where’s she at? Is she in town?”
She had been. He’d seen her singing at the Bluebird eight moths ago. No one had been listening except him. The bar had been packed with tourists who’d given Lana a cursory glance, seen that they didn’t recognize her and commenced to trying to outdrink each other. Only Taft had watched, only he had listened to the whole set. So he was the only one who’d been blown away by the sheer, raw power of “Blame Me.” He had only himself to thank for that.
“Nope.”
“How do you know? You’re in touch?” Sully’s eyes lit up. “You’ll call her. Write a couple or three more like the one you did together.”
“She wrote that last one. Not us.”
“So when you do write together, it’ll be an automatic smash. Who’s her agent again? I can’t remember.” Sully turned to his computer and started tapping.
“I’m serious, Sully. I’m not going to do that.”
Sully peered more closely at the screen. “Well, holy hell.”
“What?”
“She was with Myers and Wright, but the latest MusicRow says they split. Amicably.” Sully shook his head. “Only teams who don’t part amicably say they do.”
“Oh yeah, she said they fired her.”
“Now it looks like …” A few more taps at the keyboard. “Nope. She was singing in Ontario, but that was a few weeks ago and there’s been no news about her since.”
Taft fought down a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. “Good. There you go.”
“What about her sisters?”
“You want me to write with her sisters?” Taft’s eyebrows shot up.
Sully ignored him. “They did that fundraiser recently – some women’s hotline thing the two women started, called, what was it – here it is. Migration. Adele and Molly, working together again. Two-thirds of the Darling Songbirds, back together. Stands to reason she’ll be joining them, right?”
“They’ve been broken up a long time. Maybe for a reason.” Not that Taft would know. He and Lana hadn’t really talked that much. He’d asked if he could buy the song. She’d said yes. He’d asked her back to his place. Then there had been a lot of not talking and even more awkwardness. If he could erase one night from his life, it might be that one. That day – before he met her – had been one of the worst of his life, and it had just gotten worse.
“Hang on. Let me shoot off this email. I know a couple of people at Myers and Wright.”
“There’s no reason to do that.” Taft straightened in his chair.
“There. It’s sent,” Sully said, shocking Taft for the second time that day. “We’ll find her. Then you can meet up with her and you’ll both write some songs that will make everyone cry. We’ll all be rich.” Sully looked down at his mahogany desk. “Even richer. I can’t wait for you to do this.”
“Jesus, Sully, I said no!”
“No means no with women, dogs, kids and horses. In business it’s a soft yes.”
Taft slid lower in his chair. If Sully did find Lana, it might be worth talking to her.
Just talking.
“Blame Me” was bigger than any other hit he’d ever had. Her words tapped a deeper vein than his own, even when he’d been writing well, had ever gone. If she could do that again, if he could – ah, shit.
The truth was he wouldn’t mind seeing her again. Taft bridled at the thought that he hadn’t made a good impression in bed. He was proud of always satisfying his lovers. It was part of his brand, as it were. He wasn’t the kind of guy who picked up a girl in every town, just to be next to someone at night. That would be easy, obviously. In his line of business, women were always around, always plentiful and always ready to please.
Honestly, they were usually pretty boring.
Lana had been grumpy and taciturn. She’d been reluctant to talk to him at all. When she’d finally laughed at something he’d said, he’d felt like the sun had come out after a week of rain. When she’d agreed to sell him the song, he’d thought he could fly.
When they’d failed so spectacularly at being naked together, he’d been so frustrated he’d wanted to grind glass with his teeth.
More computer clicks. “Ha! He’s always been fast at returning emails,” Sully was saying. “Lana Darling’s in California. Here’s the address. I can have you on a flight by morning.”
“That’s crazy, Sully.”
“Just do it. For me.”
Taft thought about it. What if he did go find her?
If Sully really thought it would be good for his career, who was Taft to say anything? After all, Sully was great at his job.
California probably had some damned nice wooden spoons. He could bring a couple back for Ellen.
Lana Darling.
“Okay,” he said finally. “For you.”
He knew it was for himself, and he bet Sully knew it, too.
“Good kid.”
“Love you, Sul.” Taft didn’t say it often, but he should. God knew he hadn’t told his father enough, and Sully was a second dad to him.
Sully’s round cheeks went pink with pleasure. “Ah. Cut it out. Go write me a song.”
Chapter Three
Lana was so tired from travelling that she wanted to use the hour before meeting her sisters at the café to have a gigantic, drooling nap.
But when she lay on the squeaky bed, her eyes snapped open. She traced the crack in the ceiling with her gaze until she could see a panda in the design. Or was it a horse? No, what it actually looked like was a baby pacifier.
A baby.
Adele was having one of those.
She could have told me. It’s not like I ignore every single one of her texts.
Just most of them.
Sudden nerves kicked in her stomach. Lana swung off the bed. A nap was not in the cards for her right now.
Exploring it was, then.
Molly had warned her the place was bad. There’s mold. And dry rot. And there was the fire, of course. Small, but it did a lot of smoke damage. Lana had an active imagination. She was pretty sure the place couldn’t be more run-down than she’d thought it was. She picked up the master key Molly had left with her and looked in the mirror.
She sighed. That fateful night she’d spent with Taft Hill – she almost wished it had never happened. Sure, months later, she was glad for the money flying into her bank account as if someone had aimed a fire hose of cash into it. Mechanical, performance and synchronization royalties – that’s where the money was, when it came to a hit, and without an agent, she was getting all of it. It was enough money to truly retire. Her best friend, Jilly, had been so incredulous. You? You’re retiring from music? It had felt great, so phenomenal in fact, that Lana had gone and dyed her hair.
She’d always kept it blonde, bleaching it so light it looked white in photos. A country girl’s hair. Even though she’d been the Songbird voted least likely to know how to put on false eyelashes (seriously, in Country Music News), she knew how to blow-dry her hair so that it kicked out at the ends. Long, soft waves, that’s what country-singing women had. Taft had said it was gorgeous. He’d held up a strand, running it through his fingers. This is what I wanted to do while you were singing.
Yeah, he’d heard her song and liked it enough to buy it, but what he’d really been drawn to was her country-girl hair.
She’d dyed it dark brown – almost black – a week ago. It was her natural color, after all. Too bad it didn’t really suit her complexion. She didn’t care.
She’d cut it shorter then, too.
Now it swung unevenly, just hitting
her shoulders. It looked like a botched home job – which it was – and she’d told herself she didn’t care.
Lana had come very close to believing it.
She sighed and jammed the master key into her jeans pocket.
The room next to the one she was staying in wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined. It had a foot-wide hole in the ceiling, but the hole was covered with blue plastic, and the rest of the room didn’t seem to be too bad. The carpet was filthy, and the furniture needed deep cleaning, but it didn’t look awful.
The next room, though. Upon opening the door, she could smell the mildew, a rank, green smell that seemed to climb so far into her nasal passages that she would probably never get it out. A wooden bed frame stood in the middle of the room, off kilter, as if it had started creeping toward the door, trying to escape. Both back windows had been broken inward, and the glass shards on the floor were so dirty from the open roof that they didn’t even shine.
The next room had been the one most affected by the electrical fire. The roof was open to the sky above, and while the corner of a blue tarp flapped in the breeze, it wasn’t big enough to even cover a quarter of the ceiling. The far wall was charred, and Lana realized she was looking inside it – the beams were blackened inside the roasted drywall.
Lana covered her nose and swallowed hard. She hadn’t expected this.
She was an idiot for not expecting it. Both Adele and Molly were forces of nature. If they said it was bad, she should have known they were under-reporting it, if anything.
This was her big idea? Come back to Darling Bay and take over the motel? Lana had known the electrical needed work, but she’d thought that would be the big part. She’d imagined a few weeks of scrubbing walls and maybe some light redecorating.
This restoration would be a full-time job, even if she hired a crew to help her.
Inside her chest, the initial dismay gave way to something she didn’t recognize at first.
Relief.
That’s what it was. She wouldn’t have to think about music, about lyrics or chords or hooks or riffs or gigs or fans.
This would take forever. Thank God.
The Songbird Sisters Page 2
