The Songbird Sisters

by Rachael Herron

  Time for that to change. She’d always be the youngest. But she wasn’t a baby. Not anymore.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Taft completed another lap around town. It took seventeen minutes to walk from the rural route turn-off to the post office, to the Golden Spike, to the beach and back. He’d done it four times already. The last time he’d passed the post office, a woman had come out and very carefully taken his picture. It hadn’t been a fan. The scowl on her face had told him that. She obviously thought he was some kind of criminal casing the joint.

  A few minutes later, a patrol car had cruised past him, very slowly. When it had stopped, Taft had peered inside. The female deputy had stammered. “Oh! Oh, holy crap. Oh, wow. Can I have your autograph?” She’d gotten out of her car, and he’d signed the top page of her ticket book. She’d left with pink cheeks and almost tripped getting into her car.

  There was just no way he could go back to the Cat’s Claw. Not before it was dark, not before he could throw himself through the bed-and-breakfast’s lobby, pole-vaulting himself up the stairs and into his room, which was done up with so much flower-and-lace shit it looked like a joke. Somewhere, in LA maybe, it would be ironic. Here, it wasn’t. The woman believed in the scent of strawberry and the images of fluffy lambs. It was – to his chagrin – the only place to stay in town. The proprietress, Pearl Hawthorne, didn’t know country music (thank God), but she had buttonholed him anyway when he’d checked in, giving him a blow-by-blow account of her recent nasal surgery. When she’d asked him to feel the tip of her nose, he’d faked an allergy attack and gone up to his terrible room, dry sneezing all the way.

  The diner, maybe? He wasn’t hungry yet, even though it was almost dinnertime.

  That left the saloon. Okay, then.

  Would Lana be there? It was her family bar, right? Attached to the hotel that had no rooms for rent, the saloon looked for all the world as if a posse would ride up and hitch their horses outside any minute. The facade must have gone up in the nineteenth century, and the thick glass in the windows was wavy. The door stood open to the raised wooden porch. An old Darling Songbird tune floated out into the warm afternoon.

  Inside, it was dim. It smelled just right: pine and peanuts and stale beer. A bleach tang hung in the air. Taft’s spine began to relax. He hadn’t come up singing in bars like this – no, he’d been on stage at the Ryman Auditorium and Billy Bob’s. His first televised appearance was on Grand Ole Opry when he was twelve.

  But he loved bars like this. There were only a few people inside as it was still fairly early. Three men played cards in the corner and shuffled their feet on the sanded floor. A man and two women played dice at one end of the bar. Two obvious tourists, both sunburnt, peered at a guidebook at a small round table.

  “Taft Hill!” a woman roared from the far end of the bar. “Finally!”

  It was the older woman from the diner, the one with buzzed grey hair. She wore a dress like a tent, which made it seem like she’d move slowly, but Lord have mercy, it was like the woman flew off her bar stool on wings of fire. She tackle-hugged him around the waist, knocking the breath right out of his body.

  “Hello,” he said to the top of her head.

  The hug continued.

  Taft had practice with this. Some fans were huggers, others were criers. Nowadays most people were selfie-takers, which actually made it easier. Gave them something to do.

  This woman was a hugger. He gave her a few more seconds, then he gently patted the crown of her hair. “What’s your name?”

  She un-limpeted and stepped backward, her hands now on her hips. Her grin was ear to ear. “I didn’t tell you that, did I? I’m Norma. I did not know you were coming. I mean, into the bar. I knew you were coming here. Things keep surprising me, I tell you what.” She grabbed a handful of beaded necklaces. “Maybe I need a new tarot deck, or maybe this is just what the universe wants for me. Perpetual surprises.”

  “Well, that’s what the rest of us get, after all. Just surprises.”

  Norma’s eyes went wide. “You’re right. That is all people usually get. I’ve been gifted, for sure, and you’ve just reminded me to be thankful. You know, I think my father sent you to me.”

  “Hmmm.” That was one he hadn’t heard for a while. Taft looked over her head (not hard to do) to see if anyone was working behind the bar. Was that Adele Darling? A slim honey-blonde woman pulled a beer for someone, and when she smiled, he was sure of it. When he was younger, she’d been his favorite Songbird.

  He’d been stupid when he was young. Lana was the electric one.

  “I need new tarot cards. I think I’ll make them this time. Decoupage. That’s it. Decoupage.” Norma trucked back to her seat, apparently done with him for now.

  “Well, sweet Dolly Parton. I heard you were in town, but I didn’t quite believe it,” said Adele Darling with a smile.

  “Your sister told you?”

  “You saw my sister? Which one?”

  Taft didn’t answer. If she didn’t know, then maybe she didn’t need to. Not yet. “How’d you know, then?”

  “Barbara Dow was over at administration at the high school, and they had the police scanner on. Dot Rillo called in a suspicious male casing the post office.”

  “I knew it.”

  “I heard Deputy Dinario came up screaming on the radio that she saw you and you gave her an autograph.”

  “She seemed excited.”

  “She sounded so insane on the police radio that they all thought someone had been shot for a second.”

  “Shot in the heart. You know how it goes.”

  Adele smiled. “I do. I’m Adele Darling, by the way.”

  “I know.” Of course he knew. “Didn’t we play a set together, back in the day?”

  “Before us Songbirds broke up? I don’t think so. There was one on the books that summer, but Dad died and we cancelled the tour.”

  “Right.” That was it. This was getting awkward. “I really did love that song I almost bought from you …”

  Adele laughed. “Don’t worry about it. LeAnn Rimes did it justice.”

  “She did.”

  “Now I’m a Songbird-turned-barmaid, which suits me just fine. What are you doing in town?”

  He smiled in a way he hoped was inscrutable. “Business.”

  She squinted at him, as if determining how hard she should try to get it out of him. “Business having to do with my sister?”

  “Secret business.”

  She paused. “All right, then. I won’t bug you about it. Yet. What can I get you?”

  “Bourbon, neat.”

  “Best or worst?”

  “Only two choices?”

  “Yep. Small town, small bar.”

  “Give me the worst, then. When in Rome.”

  She slid the drink across the bar. Her mouth opened to say something, but a tour bus wheezed to a stop out front. Through the open door, they watched as a herd of senior citizens tottered off the coach steps and inside. “Oh, no. There’s gotta be about thirty of them. I’d better put the decaf on. Half will want free coffee, and the other half will order something complicated. You watch.”

  Taft spun on his stool and surveyed the room.

  When he and his father had been on the road, his pa had liked nothing more than finding the darkest little bar in town and making an appearance. A regular working bar, filled with the clack of pool balls and the familiar laughter of friends who gathered every day. As his father walked in, there were always a few confused seconds. Indrawn breaths, whispered questions: Is it? Is it really? Then the place would explode. Someone would press a whisky (or three) into his dad’s hand. Someone else would ask (always tentatively, as if supplicating a god) if they could get him to sing a song or two. What you want to hear is this boy of mine. This kid can sing. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Palmer would act humble and push Taft forward.

  No, that wasn’t fair. Taft’s father really had been unassuming. Palmer was the o
ne who’d come up from nothing, who’d built a life and a legacy to be proud of. He’d never forgotten his roots, and he would fit into little road-worn saloons because they were where he’d come from.

  Taft, on the other hand, had grown up in the back of a tour bus. People (okay, mostly his mother, Davina) bitched about the buses. Too small. Too smelly. Taft, though, thought they were nothing but luxury. Someone else drove them where they needed to be while they slept. The fridge was always well stocked, and good, hot food was always a truck stop away. When Taft’s mom had put her foot down, saying she wouldn’t be touring anymore, Taft had been thrilled. He’d been less so when she’d made him stay home with her to finish high school in Nashville. Never close, they’d grown so far apart after Palmer’s death that he hadn’t visited her newest house.

  Maybe he never would. That would probably be okay by him.

  The jukebox shuffled with a whir, and an old Tanya Tucker song came on.

  Crap. The jukebox. Usually he thought of it as soon as he walked in a place, but he’d almost forgotten.

  He got to it in time. The Tanya Tucker was the last one queued up, so he spent ten dollars on almost every song on the jukebox except his own. Out of respect for Adele, he skipped the Darling Songbirds tunes. He knew for certain she was as sick of hearing her own songs as he was of hearing his. Nothing in the world would drive him out of a bar as fast as almost any cut from his first album, and he had to spend some time in here since he really didn’t want to go back to the bed and breakfast anytime soon. If he was really lucky, Lana would come in at some point.

  Maybe he should ask the tarot lady, Norma, if Lana was in his future.

  Taft picked the last song, turning to go back to his barstool.

  As if he’d conjured her, Lana stood near the front door, talking animatedly to a man. There were approximately four thousand senior citizens between them, though, and the noise level in the bar had risen so loud Taft couldn’t hear what she was saying to the man.

  She was laughing, though. The sound cut through the air, pouring right into his ears. Suddenly, he was back in his own apartment, listening to her laugh after she’d bitten his wrist while they were still revising her song.

  As he watched, Lana waved at Adele. She and the man sat at a tiny table near the low stage.

  It was a table for two.

  The man said something to her, his head lowered to listen to her response. Then he went to the bar to order.

  Taft would be a dick if he went to talk to her while the guy bought her a drink, and he tried really hard not to be a dick. He was mostly proud of his not-a-dick status, in fact.

  But this burned.

  The man was good-looking enough, Taft supposed. If a girl liked that kind of chiseled face and dark hair and rugged strength.

  Whatever.

  Did the Darling girls have a non-musical brother? His spirits lifted. He pulled out his cell and typed in “Darling Songbird Brother.” But the reception was lousy, and the little wheel just spun. No connection.

  Besides, he was pretty damn sure there were just the three girls. When their father died, it had left them orphans. He remembered the headlines.

  Oh, shit.

  A memory slammed into him, one he’d completely forgotten until this very moment.

  Taft had gone to their father’s funeral.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tommy Darling had died in New York putting his girls on the first leg of their tour, but the funeral had been held in Nashville, of course. Tommy had been a sound guy in country music since the old days, and he’d gone on doing that job when his girls got famous. He’d managed them and their sound. Everyone knew him. More than that, everyone loved him.

  The funeral had been in St Mary’s church. The rafters had soared high above, and a choir had sung “Fly Home” so sweetly that the sobs in the audience became audible. The girls stood at the front. Taft, in his standing-room-only spot, had just been able to see the sides of their faces. Adele had stood stock-still, tears running down her cheeks. Molly had swayed a little and kept her eyes mostly closed.

  Lana, though.

  Lana had been so furious it had come off her in waves. The sheer anger she’d pushed out of her body, the rage that had shot from her eyes every time she’d turned around to look back at the crowd, had been so palpable Taft had felt shoved backward when her gaze had met his once.

  He hadn’t understood it then. Taft remembered wondering how someone could be angry at a funeral, how someone could be anything but sad.

  Then Palmer died of pneumonia. Taft had understood the anger.

  Taft looked at Lana and the guy, sitting together.

  So, yeah. That wasn’t her brother. He had to be a date. Now the man was back at the table, and they were leaning over something – gazing at some piece of paper. Lana laughed. Even through the crowd, her voice carried. It was such a pure sound, clear and sweet. She should laugh more often.

  She was the kind of woman to tell him to go to hell if he said that to her.

  And he liked that about her. A lot.

  Taft picked up his drink and stood. Casually. He would just check out the place. Give it a once-over. He was visiting, after all, a tourist in a tourist town. The other visitors were poking around the saloon like they were treasure hunting – nothing said he couldn’t do the same thing. He walked to the front, past Norma, who grinned at him. He poked his head out the front door.

  “Whatcha looking for?” Norma called.

  “Horses and buggies. I keep thinking they might be out there. This place is great.”

  “Oh. They are out there. In another dimension, sure, but I think that’s a possibility. Don’t you?”

  Taft needed to keep moving. That was key. “Oh, sure.”

  Lana was listening to the guy, nodding as he spoke. She looked downright chipper. Taft could only see the dark-haired man from the back, but he didn’t like him. Untrustworthy spine, for sure. Or something.

  Adele caught his eye. “Bathroom’s around the corner.” She pointed.

  “I’m just looking around.”

  “Oh, then, go outside. It’s prettiest out there.”

  He looked out the back door. Adele was wrong. Sure, it was pretty in the back arbor, all twined vines and twinkle lights shining in the dropping twilight, but the prettiest thing was still in the bar. He was wasting his time trying to pretend she wasn’t.

  What was the worst that could happen if he went to talk to them? The guy could try to fight him. This did feel like the Old West, after all. Taft wound his way through clumps of elderly people who were chatting and drinking like teens on Spring Break. He didn’t see many mugs of decaf – it looked like highballs all around.

  His heart pounded as he approached the table, and his feet felt too far from his body. “Don’t mean to be rude, but mind if I say hello?”

  Lana’s gaze rose to his and her eyes widened. “Oh.”

  Taft had no idea whether it was a good oh or a bad one. The man talking to her turned to face him, so Taft stuck out his hand. “Howdy. I’m –”

  “Holy shit, you’re Taft Hill!” The man sprang to standing. “Wow! I’m Jake Ballard, so great to meet you. You really are here! I told my brother he must have heard it wrong. You know, everyone likes your last album a lot, and I do, too, don’t get me wrong, but I think that Under the Hill was one of the best things ever to come out of country music.”

  Taft liked this guy. “You and me both.”

  “Rumors were – hey, wait a minute.” Jake looked from Lana to Taft and back again. “Are you two here together?”

  “No!” They both said it fast and loud, although Taft didn’t know why he said it. He was here for her, and if he were actually here with her, he’d be mighty proud of that fact.

  “But you know each other, right?”

  Lana smiled tightly. “Nashville’s a small town.”

  Jake put up his hands. “Okay. No problemo. Just seems like a big coincidence, two big stars coming to tow
n in a couple of days.”

  Lana crossed her arms. “One big star. And me.”

  Taft and Jake both started to speak, but she cut them off. “Jake and I were just talking about the hotel. I’m going to fix it up.”

  Taft nodded and felt his knees go loose, like he’d had one too many bottles of beer. The way she was looking at him – Lord, he couldn’t figure this woman out. Her gaze was heated, practically steamy, but her body language was angry. Even though she was slouched in her chair, her hands were folded so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white. The skin was tight at the sides of her mouth. Taft took a breath. “That explains why I couldn’t get a room at the inn.”

  Jake dragged a chair over from the next table. “Sit, why don’t you? Lana, you don’t mind, right? Tell us where you’re staying.”

  Taft sat, even though Lana’s expression didn’t make him confident that she didn’t mind. “I’ll only stay a second. Don’t want to spoil your date.” The word tasted sour in his mouth.

  Jake laughed. “A date? No, dude, this is business. I’m with Ballard Brothers Building. Trying to talk this smart woman into hiring us.”

  Taft was rocked back by the wave of relief that smacked him. Not a date. It wasn’t a date. He shook his head to clear it. “Sorry, I was going to answer a question, but I don’t remember what it was.”

  “Where’re you staying?”

  That was it. “I’m at a place a few blocks from the water. Cat something.”

  Jake grimaced. “The Cat’s Claw. Sorry, buddy. I’d offer you space, but I live on a boat in the marina myself.”

  “Any boats for sale? I would seriously consider buying one to get out of that place. There was a bowl of potato chips on the dining-room table and I took a whole mouthful before I realized they were potpourri made to look like chips. Who would do that?”

  Jake laughed. “That’s just plain rude.”

  “And my bed has a canopy.”

  “Whoa.”