“I got drinks covered. When?”
“It’s a surprise party.”
“What if I’m busy?”
Their laughter joined in a pleasant harmony.
“I’ll expect all the gory details about what went down at Becky’s,” he said.
“I’ll expect your guitar to be in one piece.”
“Bring your guitar. We can duel after gorging ourselves on whiskey and old, dry fruitcake.” He disconnected.
Smiling, she tossed the phone on the bed and picked up the purple nail polish.
Fifteen minutes later, she skipped down the stairs, waving her drying nails and holding the phone under her arm. She found her mama in the kitchen wearing a blue flower-printed apron and kneading bread. An old Mason jar filled with bread starter sat on the counter. The smell of sour yeastiness brought her back to being eight years old and long summer days of running through sprinklers.
Greer hung the phone up and peered over her mama’s shoulder as she worked the dough. Her hands held strength but the years had thinned her skin and knobbed her knuckles. Time had flowed along while Greer thrashed against the tide.
“Are you and Daddy taking a trip this summer?” Greer asked.
Her mama’s millisecond glance contained years of worry. “Not this summer.”
Because of Greer. Her mother wouldn’t admit it, but Greer knew she’d disrupted their lives. “You don’t have to stick around because of me. I can watch the house. No wild parties, I promise.” She held up three fingers in the Girl Scout oath.
“Not this summer.” Her mother scattered flour over the ball of dough, plopped it in a bowl, and covered it with plastic wrap to rise. “Who was that on the phone?”
“Emmett Lawson.” Greer couldn’t quite stifle a smile.
Her mama, as sharp as always, narrowed her eyes on Greer. “I didn’t realize you were friends.”
“We’re not. Emmett is part of my volunteer work at the foundation.”
“Nothing romantic, then?”
“Romantic?” Greer’s heart set up an allegro tempo in her chest. “What gave you that idea?”
“I don’t know. You seem different. I haven’t seen you grin like that in a long time.”
Greer wiped the smile off her face, but her mama was right. Greer felt different. Lighter. As if she’d hauled herself a few rungs up from rock bottom. “It has nothing to do with Emmett. He’s a cranky you-know-what. Like the world’s most annoying brother. Like—” She took a breath to come up with another convincing denial, but her mother’s swerve saved her.
“Poor Henry and Judy,” her mother said in a tutting voice.
“Why do you feel sorry for him?” Mr. Lawson had revealed himself to be a judgmental bully who deserved to walk the aisle and confess his sins in front of the congregation.
“To have their only boy come back so changed. Emmett used to be such a nice boy.”
“He’s still nice.” Why did Greer feel the need to defend Emmett? Especially with a lie. The man was a sarcastic asshole on legs—or leg. “What do people expect from a man coming back from a war we can’t win missing a leg?”
“Emmett won’t let his parents help him. Henry’s heart is broken.”
“I wasn’t aware he possessed one,” Greer muttered.
Either her mama didn’t hear or chose not to acknowledge her bad manners. “You know your father and I are here for you. Whatever you need. I’m glad you came home to us.”
Not caring about the flour dotting her mama’s apron, Greer hugged her. As depressing as it was to have to move home, she had a soft place to land. And based on the worry and love in Mrs. Lawson’s face as she’d pushed the guitar at Greer, so did Emmett.
Greer pulled away and turned to the rack of cookbooks next to the refrigerator. “I’m going to look for a job.”
“That’s wonderful. Doing what?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m not qualified to do much except bartend.” She pulled a dog-eared church cookbook from the shelf.
“You’ll figure it out and land on your feet. You always do.”
Did she? She’d gotten knocked down so many times, she felt like she was crawling to some imaginary finish line.
Wiping her hands on a white dish towel, her mother came up beside her. “Are you looking for a particular recipe?”
“How do I make a rum cake?”
* * *
Twilight was falling by the time Greer parked on the side of the road next to the padlocked gate. The afternoon spent cooking with her mama had forged new ground. Greer kept catching glances of the woman she aspired to be as if she were playing hide-and-seek. Someone like her mama—steady, calm, yet fierce about the things and people she cared about.
Which might explain why she was climbing over Emmett’s locked gate. Wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, she strolled through the trees, holding the rum cake. A thrum of energy filled her. Like the humming crickets and flashing lightning bugs, her circadian rhythm skewed toward night.
As she cleared the trees, she could see a light on in the cabin. Not that she worried Emmett might be out. The closer she got, the faster the butterflies reproduced in her stomach. As many times as she reminded herself she was visiting out of a sense of duty, there was more to it. A more she couldn’t define.
Before she made it to the bottom of the porch steps, the front door swung open and Emmett stepped out.
She struck a pose and presented the cake. “Surprise!”
“I can’t believe you actually brought cake. Are we going to crack a tooth on it?”
She tramped up the steps, stopped with only the cake plate separating them, and smiled into his eyes—a dark, rich blue and currently twinkling. “You’re lucky my dad polished off the fruitcake in February. This is Miss Lilith’s famous rum cake.” Miss Lilith had a well-earned reputation of being the best cook in their church. “I hope I did her recipe justice.”
Emmet hummed and took the plate from her. “This looks amazing. Come on in.”
She followed him into the kitchen. He uncovered the cake, leaned over, and took a deep breath with his eyes closed. “You didn’t skimp on the rum.”
“I knew you weren’t a teetotaler.”
He pulled down two plates and cut generous slices out of the Bundt cake. “Speaking of, I promised to provide the drinks. What’s your poison?”
“Milk, if you’ve got any.”
He took a half gallon out of the fridge, removed the cap, and sniffed, making a pained face. “It’s gone bad. Mom didn’t bring me any groceries this week.”
“Really?” Greer was surprised, but pleased Mrs. Lawson had held out. She tried to sound casual. “Guess you’ll have to hit the grocery tomorrow to restock.”
“Nah. I’ll call Mom and have her make a run. She should have already done it.” Emmett took their slices into the living area and set the plates on the side table.
“She’s a busy lady and not at your beck and call.” Greer plopped into an armchair that had previously been obscured by a mountain of clothes, while Emmett sat on the couch.
He narrowed his eyes on her, a bite of cake on his fork. “I can smell your disapproval through the rum.”
“You’re a grown man who is making his mother run his errands.”
“I’m not making her. She offered and I accepted.” He took another bite.
“You should be doing your own shopping.”
“Really? And is that what you’re doing? Are you shopping and cooking for your parents?”
She hadn’t expected him to flip the script. “That’s different.”
“Whatever you say.” He took the last bite and rose. “Want more?”
“No, thanks.” Greer poked at the moist cake on her plate, her appetite diminished with the realization the high road she’d been trotting down had taken a dip.
She had moved home and fallen into the same patterns as if she were a teenager and not an adult. It had been comforting, but now she could see the danger of getting t
oo comfortable with the situation.
He came back with another slice and devoured it in a half-dozen bites. When he was finished he stacked their plates on the side table and sat back, rubbing his hands down his thighs. He wore loose khaki pants that covered his artificial leg.
“You didn’t bring your guitar,” he said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
She went for total nonchalance, crossing her legs and smiling. “I sold my Martin a few months ago for rent money.” Her chin wobbled, ruining the affect she was going for, and she looked away to hide the sudden threat of tears.
“I’m sorry.” In contrast to her forced smile, he was somber, from his voice to the way he leaned forward to squeeze her hand.
“If I’d given up sooner, I might still have her with me. I met Dolly Parton backstage at the Opry when I was twenty-two and she signed it. And the leather strap was tooled with flowers. It was beautiful. Sometimes it feels like I lost a limb.” The words were out before they registered. His hand jerked away from hers, but she grabbed his wrist and held fast. “That was a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry.”
Their gazes held, his blank for a few blinks before his eyes crinkled and a laugh rumbled out. “It’s actually refreshing for someone to forget about my leg.”
“Obviously, hocking my guitar is nothing like what you’ve gone through. Are going through. I’m seriously an idiot.” The Jaws of Life were going to be required to pry her foot out of her mouth.
“Don’t worry about it. I can’t imagine what it took to part with your guitar when you’re a musician.” If he wanted to stay off the topic of his leg and her slip of the tongue, she would oblige, even though talking about her Martin was depressing.
“I still have the guitar my parents bought me twenty years ago,” she said.
Only when his fingers moved to stroke down her wrist did she realize she still had hold of him. Her grip loosened and their hands separated slowly, remaining in contact until their fingertips parted.
“It’s good enough to perform with?” he asked.
“I’m not performing ever again.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Disbelief transmitted in his voice and half smile.
“I’m not kidding. I’m done. I haven’t had the desire to play since I left Nashville, and I’ve been perfectly happy.” She couldn’t meet his eyes when she made the declaration. While it wasn’t definitely a lie, neither was it true. Her feelings were too complicated for simple categorization.
He made a scoffing sound and sat back, shaking his head. “And everyone thinks I’m the one who’s screwed up and hiding from life.”
“You are.”
“I know I am, but so are you.”
Just because his comeback was juvenile didn’t make it any less true. She was hiding. From her mistakes, her fears, and most especially, the future.
She popped up. “At least I’m trying to move forward.”
“Seems to me like you’re treading safe waters. I can’t believe you’re never going to play again. That’s a waste of your talent. What turned you into such a coward?”
Anger rose to meet his accusation. “What turned you into such an asshole?”
“Seems like you can’t handle tough love when it’s turned on you, huh?”
“Why am I even here?” She didn’t expect or want him to answer. “You better ration the cake. If your mom doesn’t run out here with your Pop-Tarts and pizza rolls, you might starve.”
She stalked through the door and jogged down the steps and toward the tree line, knowing he couldn’t keep up. She glanced over her shoulder once she’d reached the overhang of branches and slowed. Outlined by the cabin lights, he stood on the porch, his shoulder propped against the top pillar, his hands tucked into his pockets.
She tore her gaze away from him and moved deeper into the copse. Had she run because she was mad at his assumptions or because she feared he was right about everything? Was she truly moving forward?
An urgency she hadn’t felt in a long time swirled her thoughts around. She still wasn’t sure what her next step was, but she would make it soon.
Chapter 8
Greer stopped by Amelia’s office on her way down the hall to grab an instrument for her session with Ally. Amelia wasn’t there, and Greer stepped softly as if she were doing something wrong. She bypassed the mandolin and headed toward the guitar as if it were putting out a homing signal.
A tenor’s voice wavered down the hall but grew faint when Greer closed the door to her soundproof workroom. Besides strumming a few tuning chords on Emmett’s guitar, she hadn’t played since her disastrous night at the Bluebird Café. Her fingers stiffened as if she were experiencing an allergic reaction to the strings. The sting of humiliation hadn’t dimmed over the weeks gone by, when she’d blown her last, best opportunity to catch a record executive’s ear in spectacular fashion.
Greer checked her phone. Ally was late. Their last conversation scrolled through her memory. Had Greer been too pushy and curious about Ally’s mom? Getting information out of a teenager was like interrogating a spy. They were born knowing how to resist.
Just as Greer was ready to give up, Ally sidled in the door, looking even more mulish than usual. Greer bit back a needling comment about the time. She wasn’t Ally’s mother or even her friend. It didn’t matter; Greer would still get credit on her volunteer sheet for the court.
Ally dropped her backpack and slumped into the chair as if her spine were taffy. The kick she gave her pack sent it spinning three feet away.
“What a ray of sunshine.” Greer attempted to defuse the brewing conniption fit with a smile.
Ally shot her a look dripping with antipathy, but at least she had acknowledged Greer’s existence. “I had a bad day.”
To Greer’s reckoning, Ally was entitled. The girl was having a rough year.
“Want to talk about it?” Greer asked with no expectation of being taken up on the offer.
At Ally’s not-unexpected silence, Greer pulled a pencil and blank music sheets out of the plastic bin, ready to move on to business.
“It’s this girl at school. Caroline.” Ally’s words came in a rush. She grabbed a pencil and picked at the eraser. “She’s a total bitch.”
“I had a couple of run-ins at school with mean girls myself.”
“You did? Please.” Ally’s epic eye roll would have won the gold at the Olympics.
“Hey, I wasn’t always a broke, out-of-work, former musician fulfilling court-ordered volunteer hours. I had an awkward phase.” Her self-deprecating, yet depressingly true, admission got a brief smile out of Ally.
“Yeah, but look at you. You’re … pretty or whatever.”
“You’re pretty too.” Greer swallowed the “if” hovering on her tongue. While Greer thought the eyeliner and dark purple lipstick didn’t suit Ally, their boldness reflected the turmoil she battled.
Ally made a scoffing sound. “You’re not going to tell me to lay off the makeup and grow my hair out?”
“I’m super-jealous of your hair, actually. It’s edgy, which is always good for a musician.” Ally ran her hand over her hair and shot a suspicious look in Greer’s direction.
While Greer might have let it grow an inch longer and revert back to its natural dark brown, her envy was real. Having her longish, naturally curly hair in Tennessee meant braids and ponytails at least six months out of the year.
“What’s mean-girl Caroline been doing?” Greer asked.
Ally flicked the eraser she’d picked off across the room. “You’ve got to promise not to tell anyone.”
Greer hesitated to make such a promise. If whatever was happening was a threat to Ally’s safety, she’d have to go to Amelia or Ally’s mother. A broken promise would sever the friendship they were knitting together session by session, yet what choice did she have?
“I promise.” Greer held Ally’s gaze until the girl gave a nod.
“She’s posting stuff online about m
e that’s not true.”
“Take it to the principal.”
“Yeah, turning narc wouldn’t make things worse at all.” Ally’s sarcasm registered at radioactive.
Greer was beginning to really appreciate the kid’s attitude. “You’re right. Bad advice. Have you confronted her? Asked her to stop?”
“The account is anonymous.”
“How can you be sure it’s her?”
“We were the only two left in the bathroom this afternoon, and she said something that ended up being posted ten minutes later word for word.” Ally picked up another pencil and worked on decapitating its eraser.
“Is it sexual stuff she’s posting?”
“Mostly. Some if it’s about my dad, though.”
“What about him?”
Ally dropped her chin to her chest, but not before Greer noted the slight wobble. “Stuff about how he probably got himself killed on purpose because he was embarrassed to have me for a daughter.”
The words rattled around Greer’s head. In the space between shock and understanding, rage bloomed. How could someone exhibit such cruelty at such a young age?
Greer took several deep breaths, attempting to extinguish an eruption. She didn’t want her anger to scare Ally or make her clam up. “Does your mom know what’s going on?”
“She’s got enough to deal with.”
Greer held back questions. Things obviously weren’t good at home or school for Ally. “None of the stuff this Caroline girl is spreading about your dad is true.”
“It might be. I don’t know. Mom talks about him like he’s still alive, but I was there when his casket was unloaded. No one told me how he died. Was it quick or did he suffer? Was he a coward or a hero? I deserve to know, don’t you think?”
Greer swallowed past a lump in her throat. Her mind went straight to Emmett. The questions he’d posed had made her uncomfortable which in turn had caused her to lash out at him when it was really herself she was upset with. It hadn’t been fair, but then, when was life ever fair? What if Emmett had been the one to return in a casket? What if she’d never gotten the chance to know the grumpy, funny, frustrating man he’d become?
An Everyday Hero Page 8
