The Songbird Sisters

by Rachael Herron

  Taft stood from the crouch he’d been frozen in. His left knee popped so loudly he held his breath. He would step outside. He’d say, “I’m back from the store,” and he’d watch their jaws drop.

  They wanted him for marketing. To promote the Ballard Brothers company.

  “Nah, I still think it’s a great idea. It’s nice to have him around.” Jake sounded cheerful.

  “He’s costing you money.”

  “I gotta argue with you there. He came up with the ceiling fix in room seven that none of us were able to figure out.”

  “He’s a singer.”

  Taft held his breath. This was where they’d say Yeah, but he’s not ever going to be Palmer Hill, huh? Especially now.

  “I know,” said Jake. “Honestly, he’s my favorite singer in the whole world.”

  Socal laughed. “Really? Even over his father-who-isn’t-his-father?”

  “Taft’s Under the Hill album is genius. Every track. He produced it, too, did you know that? It got me through a hell of a rough time, I tell you what. I owe that man a lot.”

  Socal grunted. “Okay. I hear you.”

  “He’s gifted. We’re lucky to have him here. I don’t care if the network doesn’t come through. That was Aidan’s idea, not mine. I’m just glad to know the man and call him a friend.”

  Taft’s face burned. He held his breath, suddenly unwilling to risk making a single noise.

  “You wanna get back up in the attic?”

  Taft listened to them climb the ladder on the porch.

  He finished fixing the line to the washing machine. He got it right, finally.

  Jake was a fan. For the right reasons.

  If Jake was out there, surely there were more people like him out there, too.

  What if he just hadn’t been putting on the right suit? He’d been trying for so long to be Palmer Hill’s son, what if he just had to be Taft Hill?

  A rush of hope filled him, one he hadn’t felt for a long time. A hope that he could make the music work.

  Who was he kidding? He didn’t want to quit. He might want to build more things, but he wanted to keep performing.

  He probably always had.

  What if he could be successful just being plain old Taft Hill, son of a nobody who played guitar pretty well?

  But that was a lot to hope for.

  And without Lana, what did it matter?

  As soon as the work on the hotel was complete, he’d pack his shit and he’d get out of this town as fast as the first flight out of SFO could take him. Maybe Thailand. He hadn’t been there in years. Or New Zealand. Was that as far from California as a person could get? Antarctica, maybe.

  He didn’t know if it was possible to outrun a broken heart, but he’d never know till he tried.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Nashville’s midtown was never quiet, not where Jilly lived, anyway. Music poured out of bars and clubs, drifting like smoke down the street. The summer air smelled like the Cumberland River. Lana’s backpack was as heavy as her heart as she got out of the Uber and walked down the crowded sidewalk toward Jilly’s apartment building.

  “Hey, Songbird!” someone yelled.

  A woman squealed. “It’s her!”

  Lana gave as cheerful a wave as she could muster to the drunken crowd gathered in front of the Newport Inn. “It’s me!” she muttered. “Large as life, twice as idiotic.”

  Using the key she still had to the building, she let herself in. She went up the four flights of stairs – the elevator in this old building hadn’t been trustworthy since Nixon had been.

  She didn’t let herself in to Jilly’s apartment, even though Jilly would probably forgive her if she did.

  Lana knocked.

  On the other side of the door, she heard scuffling. She knew that Jilly was looking out the peephole so she put her eyeball up to it, the way she used to when Lana lived here.

  When they were tight.

  The door flew open. “I’m so sorry! Lana! I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Jilly looked tired. Her eyes had dark rings under them, and tears immediately swelled. “Oh, my God. I thought you’d never talk to me again.”

  “I thought about it.”

  “But you’re here.”

  “You’re not the only reason.”

  Jilly opened the door wider. “Come in?”

  Lana planted her boots more firmly on the ground. “Look. I know you’re sorry.”

  “Oh.” Jilly’s hand went out and then dropped. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  “I don’t need you to, that’s the thing.” Lana held up her wrist so Jilly could see the tattoo. “We all screw up.”

  “But … why …” Jilly looked confused.

  Lana couldn’t blame her. “I’m here to offer you a job.”

  Jilly blinked. “Huh?”

  “It starts tonight, though. Want it?”

  “Yes.”

  Lana hitched her backpack higher. “Don’t you want to hear what it is first?”

  “Don’t need to.”

  “You trust me that much?”

  “That’s what friends are for.” Jilly paled further. “I mean, if we’re still friends.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “I am.”

  “It’s one of your best traits.”

  “Oh.” Jilly looked as if she was barely breathing.

  “The job comes with a place to live.”

  “Oh!” Jilly bobbed on the balls of her toes – long ago, before she was a producer, she’d been a dancer. Lana knew that when she was nervous, she had to move, to sway.

  “That place is in California.”

  “Fantastic.”

  Lana laughed. “Don’t you need to know more?”

  “Girl.” Jilly finally reached forward and they hugged so hard Lana could feel her ribs creak. “You know I’ve been trying to get out of this place for ages. What do you want me to do?”

  Lana held up her cell phone. “Tonight? I have a meeting with someone. I want you to film it.”

  “Okay. And after that?”

  “I’m starting an artist-in-residence program at the hotel. Songwriters can apply to come stay in one of my rooms. Another room will be for you to stay in, where you can produce their songs.”

  “I love it.” Jilly nodded. “I’m in.”

  “You want to talk salary now or later?”

  “Later. I owe you a drink first, I think.”

  “That you do.” Lana stepped over the threshold with relief so sweet it made her heart ache.

  “Oh, God.” Lana looked up at the stately Tudor home. “Is this a bad idea?”

  “Honestly?” Jilly stood next to her on the doorstep.

  “No, don’t tell me.”

  “You still following your heart?”

  It was the only thing she was doing. It was all Lana had left. “Yes. How am I supposed to trust it?”

  Jilly shrugged. “You just have to. Ready?” She trained her iPhone on Lana. “Ring the doorbell.”

  Lana did.

  A few minutes later, an older man wearing a well-cut dark-blue suit opened the door. He had crinkles around his eyes that hinted he smiled a lot.

  He wasn’t smiling now.

  Sully Tavin introduced himself to both of them, and then led them inside. He spoke over his shoulder as they walked through an impressive marble foyer. “My wife, Ellen, wants to meet you.”

  “I have something for her.” Lana’s heart pounded so hard she wondered if the camera was picking it up.

  Sully stopped in his tracks and turned. “She’s sick. And while I’m sure you’re normally a very nice person –” his tone said he did not believe this “– I don’t appreciate what you’ve done to Taft. I won’t have you upsetting her. Period. If you do, I’ll throw you out of this house so fast you’ll wind up in Knoxville.”

  “I hear you, sir.” Lana’s southern manners had come back as soon as she’d crossed the Mason–Di
xon line. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. She’s in the solarium. This way.”

  The solarium, Lana mouthed at Jilly’s camera.

  Oooh, Jilly mouthed back.

  The house itself was normal – showing off its wealth just like all the other houses in this part of Nashville. Old wood, new tile, art that was numbered on the walls.

  The solarium was different. It wasn’t so much a room as it was a small greenhouse. It took a minute after being ushered in even to see Ellen around all the lush greenery.

  She, too, was in all different shades of green, as if in camouflage – she wore a glaucous dress and lime ballet flats and an emerald knitted wrap. She was tiny, with very short white hair that spoke of recent chemo. When she held out her hand to Lana, it shook.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home, ma’am,” Lana said, lightly gripping the offered hand.

  “No bother.” Ellen’s voice was as soft as her skin. “Let’s sit, shall we? Sullivan, is the tea coming?”

  “Ruth’s bringing it, love.” Sully looked like a different man in front of her. In the hallway, he’d been fierce. Here, his face was tender, as were his eyes.

  This man loved this woman.

  Both of them loved Taft.

  Holy crap.

  Lana settled herself in a low wicker chair. “Thank you, again, for allowing this. For letting us film here. I know it’s a terrible imposition.”

  Ellen didn’t even glance at Jilly’s camera. “This is about Taft, isn’t it? Anything for him. Please, tell me how your trip was.”

  Oh, no. This wasn’t a social visit. Lana didn’t want to stress out this frail woman for a second longer than she had to.

  “I came to ask Sully a question about Taft Hill.”

  Ellen rested thin fingers against her face. “And here I am, barging in. You know women. I want to know everything. Are you in love with him?”

  The question took Lana’s breath away. “Yes.”

  Ellen shot a happy, triumphant look at Sully. “I told you so, darling.”

  Sully sighed. “She’s always right.”

  “I am.”

  “It gets annoying.” But Sully reached for his wife’s hand, and the way they sat there – so very together – made Lana wistful. And angry at herself. Again.

  “I screwed up. I told the media he wasn’t Palmer Hill’s son.”

  Sully shook his head. “I can’t believe you did.”

  “I know – here’s the thing –”

  Ellen interrupted, “But he was Palmer’s son, that’s what I don’t understand.”

  “I mean, I told the media he wasn’t Palmer’s biological son.”

  “Well, of course, but Palmer didn’t care about that.”

  The air in Lana’s lungs grew hot. “Wait. Palmer knew?”

  Ellen waved a hand gently as if she were brushing away a butterfly. “Of course he did. He knew from the start.”

  Lana felt as if she’d fallen out of a tree. “Sorry?”

  “Davina was pregnant when they met.”

  “But Taft’s mother told him she wasn’t sure if Palmer knew or not.”

  Ellen smiled with radiant sweetness. “Davina has always been prone to convincing herself there are problems when there are not. A plight many people have, I think?”

  Lana swayed in her seat. “So he knew the whole time?”

  “He always said Taft was the best thing to ever happen to him. Isn’t that the nicest thing? Not like other men, who brag about making their children, as if their children are their best products. No, he was eternally grateful to Davina for giving him a son, the best gift he ever received.”

  “Why didn’t – why didn’t they ever talk about it?”

  Ellen lifted a shoulder. Her shawl slipped. Sully pulled it back up gently. “I always assumed – and I still do – that he just didn’t care. Taft was his pride and joy. That was all, full stop. He couldn’t have been any prouder of the boy if he had sired him. Palmer thought – like we do – that love is where you find it. It’s all that matters. It doesn’t matter how the love arrives, or when, or where. It matters that it does, and that we honor it. You love your friend, yes?” Ellen gestured at Jilly, whose eyes widened.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “You love your sisters?”

  Something about this woman tugged at Lana to tell the absolute truth. “Always. Even though I don’t show it the right way to them. I never have.”

  “Oh, honey, they know. Just like Taft knows, in his heart of hearts. That’s why Palmer left everything to Davina. He knew she’d need it.”

  “Did he love her?”

  Sully answered. “So much.” He looked at his wife. “We never … well, we always thought he could do better. But she gave him Taft, and that’s all Palmer cared about. Davina herself was always about the money.”

  “Did she ever love Palmer?”

  “I think she did,” said Ellen quietly. “In her own way. Now, what’s your question, dear?”

  “I’m sorry. I want to say that to both of you.”

  Ellen bowed her head as if she were receiving the apology around her neck, like a lei. “And what else?”

  “How do I get Taft to forgive me?”

  Ellen smiled. “Do you deserve forgiveness?”

  Lana looked at her hands. Her fingers were braided in her lap so tightly the knuckles ached. “No.”

  “Well, that’s good. It means you just have to ask for it. If you deserved it, he’d have to forgive you. This way, he gets to choose.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Then, my dear, your heart is broken.”

  “It is already.”

  “It won’t be any different, then.” Ellen touched Sully’s sleeve. “I wish you the best of luck, sugar. We love Taft, and we want only his happiness. I’m so glad to meet you both.”

  “Ditto.” God, what a dumb thing to say, but it was all Lana could think of. “Oh! I brought you something.” She rummaged in her bag. “Here. It’s made of walnut from a tree a storm blew down last year in Darling Bay.”

  She handed the carved spoon to Ellen.

  “Oh, how lovely.”

  “A man named Mike carved it. He’s a veteran, and the carving gives him focus, he says.”

  “Even better.” Ellen looked up at Lana. “Do you know why I collect spoons?”

  “No. Taft didn’t say.”

  “A long time ago, someone told me if you hang a spoon on the wall, you’ll never go hungry. I used to be hungry a lot when I was young. It sounded good to me.”

  A thin hope trickled down Lana’s throat. “So it worked?”

  She raised her shoulders. “Who knows? Now I just like spoons. Darling, will you take me to the bedroom now? I’m quite tired.”

  Sully nodded. In a move surprising for a man of his age, he lifted Ellen out of the chair in his arms and carried her from the room.

  Lana sat next to Jilly. Both of them stayed silent.

  Sully came back and walked them to the door. “Did you get what you were looking for?”

  “I don’t know.” Lana touched the marble foot of an angel on the doorstep. “I think so.”

  “Palmer loved his son.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  As the heavy door closed behind them, Lana started to cry.

  Jilly turned off the camera and hugged her. “Jeez.”

  Lana hugged her back. “What?”

  “I am never falling in love.”

  “Good luck. I think it’s in the water in Darling Bay.” Lana sighed and wiped her cheek on Jilly’s shoulder before pulling away. “You’re doomed.”

  “I’ll bring bottled water, then. When am I putting this video together?”

  “I just have to play you the song. We can do that at your place, right? Will it take long to edit?”

  “I can do it on the plane if you help me pack.”

  “Perfect.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Taft heard her before he saw her
.

  He was in room two, installing the light-switch plates, the final touch that was needed. All that was missing now was furnishings, and it would be rentable.

  Lana’s laugh drifted up the walkway. She sounded like a song. Music in motion.

  Taft was still so damned in love with her, he could barely see straight.

  He was still furious, of course, too. But the fury had worn off a bit in the last few days of thinking about her. He was even considering saying yes to People magazine’s interview request.

  The fact was, now that the truth was out there, he was kind of off the hook.

  He wasn’t Palmer Hill’s son, and that meant exactly the same.

  He didn’t have to be anything he wasn’t. It wasn’t so much a relief as it was a surprise. He was getting messages of support from unexpected places – his label had reached out and offered him another contract, even though the current one wasn’t even fulfilled, for even more money. A lot more.

  Maybe it was true that the only bad press was no press?

  Lana’s laugh got closer. She was saying something to Jake, and he suddenly wanted to know what it was that had brightened her voice so much. Taft snapped his fingers. “You hear that, dog?”

  Emily Dickinson paused in chewing on the old boot she’d found behind the hotel. Her ears pricked up.

  Then she gave a bark and ran out of the room as fast as her short legs could carry her. Taft wanted to do the same, but managed a more sedate pace.

  Lana knelt on the ground, rubbing Emily Dickinson’s ears. “Look at you. Did you grow in the last few days? You seem rounder.” Lana looked up. “Oh, wow. You seem taller.” Her voice was breathy.

  Jake garbled something that didn’t make any sense and disappeared into one of the rooms.

  Taft wanted to pull Lana up, to haul her against his body and kiss the hell out of her, but he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. “Yeah, well.”

  She stood. “I have something to show you.”

  “Okay.” He crossed his arms. Emily Dickinson moved to sit on his foot.

  “Wait, she likes you now?”

  “Loves me. What can I say? I’m a ladies’ man.”

  Lana pulled in her lips and nodded. “Oh, damn.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I mean, everything. I’m about to come apart at the seams.”