The Songbird Sisters

by Rachael Herron

  It was a mistake, though, bringing it up. Adele had that look on her face, the look she got before she asked them to do something entirely too sisterly. It had been a long time, but Lana still recognized it. But instead of asking them to sing something together, Adele just said, “Thanks. We were proud of it.”

  That we.

  Adele and Molly were a we.

  Would Lana ever be that with them again?

  Did she want to be?

  Lightly, she said, “It was pretty. You wrote it together?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No way,” said Molly. “I had the idea, but Adele is the one who rewrote it and made it good.”

  Lana nodded, her heart aching. Once, she’d thought she’d become the best songwriter in the family, but she hadn’t even managed that. A one-hit wonder was nothing to brag about. “Still writing for Nashville?”

  Adele nodded, ducking her head as if a little embarrassed. “Sometimes.”

  Molly bounced in her seat. “Have you heard ‘Easy’ by Toby Keith? Adele wrote the whole thing, but I came up with the last line, so I make her give me free beer at the bar sometimes.”

  Lana had heard it. A lot. The song had rocketed up the chart in what seemed like just a day or two. She’d been jealous she hadn’t thought of the chorus. I’m not easy like Sunday morning, I’m easy like Saturday night. “Good for you.”

  “What about you?” Adele’s voice was so soft, as if she were being careful with Lana.

  “Me?”

  “Have you been writing? There’s some good stuff out there right now.” Adele was acting like talking about Nashville was the most important thing in the world.

  Lana was grateful for it. It was something to hang their conversation on, and she could avoid the question. “Have you heard George Strait’s new one? You know Shirt Turner wrote that, right?”

  Molly and Adele both gasped. They leaned forward. Molly said, “But didn’t he … we heard he killed himself.”

  Lana coughed. “Rumors of his demise are greatly exaggerated. He lit his hair on fire when he fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand.”

  “But …”

  “Yeah, he only had that combover. Now he has a scar and even less hair. But he’s fine. Drunk most of the time nowadays, but fine.”

  Adele’s gaze was eager, her eyes bright. “More gossip. Tell me. I’ve been sending songs to where they need to go, but I haven’t heard good dish in forever. What about Gavin?”

  “Broke.”

  “Stacey?”

  “Broker.”

  “Jones?”

  “Oh, he married Stacey, which is why she’s broke.”

  Her sisters laughed, and something warm ran laps in Lana’s empty stomach. This was getting too good. She needed a nap. A break of some kind. So much happiness would probably curdle her. Lana was used to struggling. This felt way too easy. “I’m starving. And I’m suddenly exhausted. Any chance we could get room service around here?”

  “Ooh!” Molly nodded. “Great idea. I’ll put together some plates and we’ll eat in your room?”

  Oh, no, that wasn’t what she’d meant.

  Adele wasn’t paying attention – she seemed to still be stuck on Nashville news. “What about Taft Hill? Who’s writing for him? Have you heard that new song? “Blame Me,” I think it’s called. I can’t decide what I think about it.”

  Lana, stunned, could only say, “Sorry?”

  Molly said, “Oh, man, if you haven’t heard it, you have to. It’s really good. I’m dying to know who wrote it for him.”

  “It’s different,” said Adele.

  What did “different” mean? Lana wished to hell she didn’t care, but she did. She should derail this particular train. “Doesn’t Taft Hill write his own stuff?”

  Adele inclined her head. “Well, sure, that’s what he says. We know how it really goes. This song was written by someone else, I know it.”

  Lana tried to give a scoffing laugh, but it came out more like a choked wheeze. “Maybe he’s just gotten a lot better with time.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say it was better. I said it was different.”

  Molly turned to stare. “You don’t like it, Adele? You listened to it like four times in a row the other afternoon.”

  “I’m not sure if I like it.”

  Lana’s heart beat faster. “Why not?”

  “I don’t trust it, somehow. You really haven’t heard it?”

  Should she lie? Instead, she deflected again. “Why don’t you trust it?”

  Adele waved her hand in front of her face, as if pushing away the thought. “I don’t know. I need to let it go. It’s just such a strong song, subject-wise, but something’s lost in the way he sings it.”

  “What’s it about?” Now she was straight-up lying by omission. But she had to hear more.

  “An abused woman. Typical fare, you know. Boring. Of course, there’s the normal alcohol references to make it feel more inevitable.”

  It was like Adele had slapped her. She managed to say, “Yeah?”

  Molly jumped in. “Now that’s not fair. I think Taft is saying something pretty big in it. It’s not about a woman getting abused, it’s about her not being allowed to choose the hand she’s dealt. I think it’s pretty deep, and it says a lot that he’s the one listening in the song. The abused woman is telling her story through him, I think.”

  Adele shook her head again. “Maybe it’s deep and I’m not getting it. There’s something I really like about the song, even though on the surface level I actually kind of hate it. Maybe the songwriter is just really young? Really naive?”

  “No.” Oh, great. Lana should stab herself with a fork. That would distract them.

  “What?”

  “I mean, if Taft Hill bought it, it has to be someone established, right? He’s too big to work with someone renting a White Bluff apartment and eating Top Ramen.”

  “It’s just weird. That’s all. What about you? Hey, you didn’t answer earlier. Have you been writing?”

  A leaden lump settled in Lana’s chest and she didn’t feel hungry anymore. The diners around them were loud again, happily tucking away their dinners, indifferent to sibling drama. “Nope. Not a word.” What a lie. Even when she wasn’t actually physically writing songs in her notebook, Lana was writing them in her head, singing each line over and over in her brain until it was stuck there, impossible to dislodge.

  It was something she loved about herself – the inability to move more than a few yards on a walk without coming up with a new hook that begged for a song to fit it in.

  It was one of the things she hated most about herself, too. That her talent was second-hand, passed down from Adele, the real songwriter in the family.

  Lana folded her knife and fork back into the paper napkin she’d taken them from. She’d eat a protein bar in the room, and she’d call that good. “You know what I always hated?”

  Molly was distracted, waving at a red-faced baby at a nearby table, but Adele was listening. She looked startled. “What?”

  Don’t start. Quit it. Don’t do it. Lana spoke anyway, hating herself as she did. “The jeans.”

  Chapter Six

  Adele tilted her head. “Jeans?”

  “Yours, in particular. You always got them new.”

  Molly turned to join in. “True! Adele, you were the only one with new jeans when we were growing up.”

  “So?”

  “By the time they got to me, they were worn out.” It was so stupid to bring up that old hurt feeling.

  Adele smiled. “You got the patches, though! Mama made those jeans so cute, you know she did.”

  Lana started to scoot out of the booth. “They were worn. You got them when they were cute and new, and I got them covered with patched butterflies and elephants.”

  “So cute!” Adele insisted.

  “Not when I was in junior high.”

  “Oh, come on.” Adele looked like she was going to laugh. “You’re not seriously still
upset about that.”

  It stung. It always had. When Adele decided what she thought about another person, she didn’t give up on that, though. If she thought Lana had loved wearing jeans with animal patches stitched into the crotch, she’d believe she was right till the breath left her body.

  “Come on, Lana.” Molly was the peacemaker. She always had been. “It’s not a big deal, right? It was so long ago.” Molly’s smile was wide. Pleading.

  Lana would swim across a lake of fire for Molly. “I’m just saying.”

  Adele nodded. “Besides, look at you now. You’re the real star of the family. Still out there working, singing. Still making money with your music. I sell songs, yeah, but I don’t sing them.”

  “What about that album you two did?”

  A short, sharp look flew between Molly and Adele.

  “We thought you didn’t mind,” said Molly weakly.

  Lana didn’t.

  Well, she had thought she didn’t. The album was to raise money for Migration. Lana had been nowhere nearby. It was great that her sisters had done it. They were making a difference in the world.

  Lana had given herself a crooked haircut and a bad dye job.

  Their lives weren’t parallel – they were perpendicular.

  “I don’t mind.” No matter what, she had to make that be true. “I really don’t.”

  Adele smiled warmly, so warmly Lana almost believed she was as special as the smile said she was. “Will you stay?”

  Next to her, Molly rolled her eyes and groaned. “No pressure, though. I’m sure that’s not what she wants to talk about right now.”

  But Lana nodded. “Yes.”

  It was as if she’d pulled out a paper bag full of kittens and dumped them all over the café table. Her sisters both screamed and squealed in the same breath. They got up to hug her, but the embrace was less like a hug and more like a homecoming. Lana blinked hard and rubbed her nose with a napkin, mumbling something about allergies in Darling Bay. Restaurant patrons looked on with renewed interest. Why had she told them now, here? In front of everyone.

  On the other hand, maybe she’d done it on purpose. Now she could make her escape, plead exhaustion, which was true, and go to bed.

  The words were tumbling out of her sisters, and it took effort to parse their meaning. “You mean it? You’ll stay? Like, forever?”

  “Will you run the hotel? Oh, God.” Adele’s eyes were huge. “You have to run it. Molly and I can’t figure out one damn thing to do. We have no idea where to start. You would be perfect for it. You have to stay.”

  What an Adele move.

  Lana had just said she was staying, and now Adele was trying to make her do so. As if it were her idea.

  Molly put her soft hand on Lana’s forearm. “What about singing? Touring? Will you still do that if you stay? Go out on the road?”

  “Nope.” The word was nothing but bravado. The only thing Lana knew was the road. She hadn’t lived in a town for more than a month since she was a little girl, since the last time they left Darling Bay. “I’m done with music.”

  Somehow, she’d expected they would congratulate her. It had been something she’d thought about for so long, after all, the idea wasn’t surprising to her anymore. It still felt sad and deep, like a cold dark well of black water, but it was water she was used to. Water she was willing to drink.

  Adele gave a short laugh. “Oh, my God, I thought you were serious for a minute.”

  Molly scanned Lana’s face. “I think she is.”

  The food arrived then, mercifully. For a few minutes, they focused on moving plates, grabbing extra mayo, salting the fries.

  They carefully didn’t look at each other until Nikki had refilled their waters and walked away.

  “Okay,” said Molly. “More, please. You can’t be serious.”

  Adele nodded but kept quiet, thankfully.

  Lana held a too-hot fry in her hand. “I’m as serious as sin. I’m out. No more dingy bars, no more drunks grabbing my ass, no more songs being sung by people who don’t understand the emotion behind the words.”

  No more late nights searching for hours for the right word, the word that would make this song lift off and soar. No more joy as the right chord found the next one, each line making the song better, stronger. No more meeting with other songwriters, no more collaboration, no more incredible surprises, no more breath.

  No more hope.

  Just regular life. With regular people.

  Lana was going to be someone with an interesting history and a boring future.

  Honestly, after so many years of trying to be fascinating enough to captivate strangers with nothing more than a well-turned phrase, a boring future sounded kind of okay.

  Adele broke the short silence that had fallen with a clap. “Okay, we have to celebrate. You’re staying. Our last Songbird. Home. I’ll go grab a bottle of wine so we can really celebrate. And by “we” I mean you two, since I’m not drinking.”

  “I’m good with water.” Lana threw a smile at Molly. “And this delicious burger.”

  Adele kept up her chirping. “Okay. What about money? It’s not going to be cheap to upgrade the hotel rooms, and I know it might be hard to ask, but –”

  Even though most customers had by now made their way out into the night, there were still enough people in the big room that this was the wrong place to make this revelation. But Lana couldn’t help herself. “I have enough money.”

  Molly grinned. “I knew it.”

  Adele looked sharply at her. “Knew what?”

  “That she had an ace up her sleeve.”

  Molly would, of course, be the one who guessed. “I like an ace, that’s true.”

  “You’re rich.”

  “Well …” Lana wasn’t ridiculously wealthy. She couldn’t run off and buy a castle or anything. She’d never have a private plane. The money to upgrade an old hotel and make the rooms rentable again, though? To make them clean and pretty and old-fashioned and home-like? Yeah, she had that money, with more of it pouring into her bank account every day. “I have enough.”

  Molly pumped her fist. “You always said you’d never come back until you’d made it. Now you have. I’m so proud of you. And happy for us.” She grinned. Lana was the lucky one with a sister like Molly.

  Adele, however, was suspiciously quiet. She examined a pickle slice carefully and then ate it.

  Lana jammed two fries into her mouth. She spoke around them. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Molly held up a hand. “We don’t have to get all the particulars right n–”

  “How did you make the money?”

  Funny, Lana would’ve happily told Molly. She’d planned to. But when Adele asked like that, it made her want to lie, the same way she had every time Adele had blamed her for finishing off the animal crackers when they were little. Lana lowered her voice. “I ran a whorehouse for a little while. Good money in it, you know.”

  Adele’s eyes widened. “No.”

  “Um, seriously?”

  Adele shook her head. “I knew you were kidding.”

  Pain sliced inside Lana’s chest. “Dude. For a minute you actually thought I could make money selling women’s bodies – that was easier to believe than maybe I just did well in Nashville?”

  Adele rubbed her cheeks. “Of course not. That’s not right. It’s just … but how?”

  “I sold a couple of body organs. Expensive ones. Heart and both lungs.”

  Molly said, “You guys …”

  “I’m happy,” said Adele. “I’m fucking thrilled you’re home. This has been my dream for just about forever.”

  “You’ve been here less than a year,” Lana accused.

  “It’s always been my dream.”

  “To have us all back in the same broken-down town?”

  Adele shook her head. “To have us all back together. I didn’t give a shit where.” Her eyes were glossy, as if she were about to start crying, and honestly, tha
t was going to do nothing but piss Lana off.

  “Don’t cry, for God’s sake.”

  Adele glared. “I’m not.”

  Lana stabbed a fry in her direction. “Good. Because that would be dumb.”

  “How did you get the money?” Adele demanded.

  “Does it actually matter?”

  Molly groaned. “I give up on you two. Give me more fries.”

  “Here.” Lana shoved them in her direction.

  “Tell me they’re the best.”

  “They are.” They really were. But as delicious as the fries were, the topic wasn’t going to throw off Adele.

  “Did you do a tour we don’t know about?”

  “No.” Lana knew Adele still worked with the biggest names in the business. She’d have heard if Lana suddenly had gone on tour with Jason Aldean or Reba McEntire.

  “Has to be songwriting, then.”

  “There’s nothing else in the industry? That’s pretty reductive, isn’t it?”

  Adele frowned. “True. You’re right. Okay, tell me.”

  “No.” Lana took a huge mouthful of the cheeseburger so she wouldn’t be tempted to say more.

  Only, as she chewed, she wondered what the hell her problem was. Why couldn’t she tell her sisters? She’d done nothing wrong. She’d written a song that had rocketed to the top of the charts since months ago and showed real staying power. It had been optioned by four different movies and one major national ad campaign. That, plus the others she’d sold in the past, would keep royalty cheese flowing into her account for the next twenty years at least, checks that meant she never had to go on the road again.

  Was it possible that was her problem?

  That she’d lost the only adult life she’d ever known?

  Why the hell was she trying to hide it from her sisters, the ones who loved her more than anyone? It was just stubborn misplaced pride and embarrassment.

  She’d wanted to be a star.

  Instead, she just wrote songs, exactly like her big sister, who’d done it for longer and who’d been better at it.

  She had to face it and quit pushing them away. “I –”

  “What is that tattoo?” Adele reached forward and pulled at Lana’s wrist. Lana instinctively pulled back, but it was too late.