by Amy Sorrells
Back at home, James stopped as he was about to pass by the doorway of Shelby’s room. Surrounded by scrapbooks she and Molly had made together, she sat on the braided rug in the middle of her hardwood floor.
“She was so pretty.”
The page she was looking at featured Molly laughing, covered in paint, as James surprised her refurbishing an old dresser she’d found at a yard sale.
“Yes. She was.”
When Shelby looked up at him, James saw that she had been weeping. “Do you think she’d be proud of me?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Dad, how did you and Mom know you were right together?”
James took a deep breath. He’d felt so unable to reach her lately and now was a chance. Now she had asked him about something. Now he could say something and she might actually listen.
“Hmmm . . . well . . . that’s a hard one.”
He sat on her bed and picked up the pink stuffed bear Molly’d packed in the hospital bag all those years ago. The fur was rubbed off in places, the seams showing on the edges.
“I mean, I guess it wasn’t hard for us as much as it was for her parents. I didn’t come from much, and I certainly didn’t have the professional and financial ambitions they were expecting for her.”
“Why did money matter so much?”
“At the time, I wondered the same thing. Didn’t seem fair. But now—”
“Now that you’re a parent . . .” She rolled her eyes.
“Well, yes, now that I’m a parent, I can understand.” He smoothed the frayed strings down around the bear’s embroidered eyes. “There’s a lot of things I understand better now. They wanted her to be cared for. The way I hope you will be cared for . . . better, I think, than the way I think Cade might be treating you.”
She sighed and focused back on the scrapbook page. “He treats me fine.”
“Does he?”
She met his eyes and looked hard into them. “Yes.”
“Folks around town have mentioned—”
She held up her hand. “Wait. Let me guess. They’ve told you he hangs with a bad crowd and he’s like his dad.”
“Well, yes. And there’s concern for physical harm, too.”
“Just because someone looks one way on the outside doesn’t mean they’re like what people think they’re like.” She shut the cover of the scrapbook and slammed it on the floor.
“All I’m saying is I’m worried about your safety. Apples don’t fall far, and Silas has hurt a lot of folks. There were reasons his wife left him years back. And Cade has made his own reputation for himself.” The newspaper printed the police blotter, and everyone knew about the day Silas’s wife reported a domestic disturbance and had filed for divorce and eventually left town. Cade and Silas both had been listed for traffic violations and multiple other runs to their house for various reasons. Besides that, folks talked about how Cade didn’t measure up to Silas, who’d been the town hero when he’d gotten a full-ride scholarship to play for Indiana University back in his day.
“I suppose you think I should be with a nice guy like Noble Burden, right?”
“You two were close . . . before the accident. I do worry about why you’re not close anymore.”
She sighed, and her shoulders drooped. “He’s going to Nashville. He’s leaving. Just like everyone leaving the church and others leaving town altogether.” Her shoulders drooped and the hardness in her face softened as tears began to fall. “Just like Mama.”
He watched Shelby, shoulders shaking as she began to weep. She sat there cross-legged like a little girl but looking all grown up and on the verge of so many big decisions. So many changes. Too many changes.
“I think after Mama died, I . . .” She hesitated as if bracing herself and him for what she was about to say. “It feels scary to be close to anyone anymore—” she tried to hold back a sob—“’cause what if they die, too?”
A picture on her bedside table caught his eye: the three of them, James, Molly, and Shelby, hair windblown and cheeks pink as they stood on a Lake Michigan beach. He remembered that day clearly. They’d gone up there for spring break and spent the day flying the kite Shelby held in her hands. He got down and sat on the floor beside her. “You know, Shelby, the hardest thing about living is realizing dying is a part of it, and I’m so sorry you’ve had to learn that this way, too young, too soon.”
She rested her head on his shoulder and sniffed again. “What’s gonna happen to us, Dad? I mean, after the church closes and all.”
James rubbed his eyes, wondering about the answer to that question as much as she was. “We’re not moving, I know that much. I promised to see you through your senior year.”
“I know. But can you be a preacher someplace else?”
“Maybe . . . I don’t know . . . I have a few folks I could ask . . .” He thought about Dr. Wilcox, friends he still kept in touch with from college. He thought about Hank’s offer to give him a job at the hardware store. He tried to hold in the tears he felt puddling in his own eyes now. The last thing Shelby needed right then was to see her dad have an emotional breakdown. He was relieved she spoke up next.
“Do you remember how you used to tell me the story about Gideon?”
He kissed the top of her head, still resting on his shoulder. “I do. I kept wanting to read you other stories from that old children’s Bible, but you insisted we read that one every night.”
“He thought because all the bad things kept happening to them that God had abandoned them. And his clan was the weakest one in the land, but God told him to go and fight the—who was it?”
“The Midianites.”
“Yeah.” She wiped her eyes and grinned at him. “God kept making the army smaller and smaller, and in the end it was three hundred guys blowing their trumpets and breaking clay jars and they scared the Midianites into fighting themselves to death. You said God did all that so that when Gideon won the battle, everyone would know that God had made it happen. So he’d get the glory.”
“Did I? I was so wise back then.”
She laughed and gently elbowed him in the ribs. “Do you think that’s what God’s doing with us?”
James considered this for a moment, then pulled Shelby closer. “If he is, I think he can stop whittling us down now. We don’t have much more to spare.”
28
Being in Nashville hardly seemed real to Noble. Just hours ago he’d seen to the milking of sixty cows and now he was walking up the driveway of the mansion of a respected country music professional. He tried not to stare as he entered the pristine home of Cass Dinsmore on the top of a high hill in Brentwood, Tennessee. He felt like every bit the hick that he was against the dining room’s coffered ceiling and the exquisite trim work on the walls. He kicked his worn shoes off and felt the thick carpet and padding under his feet. He tried to keep his chin from dropping at the sight of the fireplace in the front room, which was large enough to set a couch in and made from one solid piece of limestone carved with intricate Gothic patterns. He took in the view from the two-story picture windows.
Mama would love this, he thought. And Eustace. It’d sure give him a lot of new places to go to find more butterflies.
“Welcome to Nashville, Noble. I’ve heard so much about you. Can I get you somethin’ to drink?” A woman he assumed to be Cass’s wife appeared from the kitchen. Her glossy blonde hair was pulled back into a neat and smooth chignon. He caught the scent of her perfume and couldn’t help but notice her pressed clothes that looked fresh off a clothing rack at a high-end store he’d seen in a mall in Indianapolis.
He remembered enough manners to extend his hand toward her and was grateful he’d stopped to wash them in the airport bathroom. He cleared his throat. “You must be Mrs. Dinsmore. I’ll have some water if that’s alright.”
“Well, we’ve got plenty of that,” she laughed. “And please, call me Azalea. Mrs. Dinsmore is my mother-in-law. Sure you don’t want a soda? We’ve got some good craft b
eer?”
“No thank you, ma’am. Water’s fine.”
Cass put a hand on his shoulder. “Make yourself comfortable. Azalea’s cooked us a fine supper, and we can sit in here or out on the veranda if you’d prefer while she’s finishing it up.”
The two of them settled on the veranda, which was surrounded by a generous limestone banister and canopied by Southern red oaks and magnolias. The patio furniture featured thick black scrolled iron and thick, weatherproofed seat cushions. One thing for sure, it sure wasn’t any cooler in Nashville. Noble held the glass of ice water, beads of moisture dripping down the sides. “You have a beautiful place here, Mr. Dinsmore.”
“Please, as I’ve said, call me Cass.”
Noble felt his face flush as he laughed a little louder than he’d intended.
“Look, Noble,” Cass said, taking a sip of his bourbon from a crystal tumbler. “I’m sure this isn’t what you’re used to. But I wouldn’t have brought you here unless I thought you really had something special. We hear all kinds play in auditions, and so many of them can move their fingers and carry a pitch, but it’s forced, anxious. When I saw you playing at that bar—”
“The Purple Onion.”
“That’s it. The Purple Onion. When I saw you playing there, I said to myself, ‘There’s somebody who’s a natural.’ And you know what’s so great about natural talent?”
“What’s that?” A red-tailed hawk caught his eye as it flew from the red oak to a willow across the expansive backyard.
Cass leaned forward and swirled the bourbon in his cup. “Gives us something to work with. Gives bands what they’re begging for. We’re gonna find you an agent and then a contract, Noble Burden. What do you think of that?”
Welcome, Noble Burden!
The slide lingered for a few seconds before flashing to the next announcement on the flat screen mounted on the wall above the welcome desk inside the entrance to Mountain Top Studios. The seventeen-thousand-square-foot building was the recording home to some of the biggest names in country and western music. The lobby was enormous, and the walls were covered with gold and platinum albums, signed guitars and photographs of artists Noble had admired since before he could walk. He realized Cass had been talking to him.
“—six giant recording studios, all updated with the best and most advanced technologies. There’s a fitness center, additional studios for TV and video productions, a conference center for education—I could see you leading some sessions there—and plenty of greenrooms for hanging out.”
“Impressive.” Noble’s voice cracked as he struggled to comprehend and believe where he was in that moment. Before he’d gotten to Nashville, and despite Cass’s assurances and all he’d discovered to be true about him on the Internet, he’d half assumed the whole thing was a joke and that he’d come back to Sycamore with his proverbial tail between his legs.
People in cowboy hats, reptile-skin boots, and pricey suits walked by, each of them greeting Cass. Noble knew from his Internet research that Cass was a highly respected scouter, but the full meaning of that only now had begun to register.
He gripped the handle on his guitar case tighter.
This was the real deal.
He could say yes and sign a piece of paper, if they offered one, and this life could be his.
“Mountain Top Studios is home to several of my main clients, and I’ve got a few people I’d like to introduce you to today,” Cass said as he led Noble down a wide hallway to a collection of offices with oversize mahogany doors.
Noble noticed a man dressed in navy-blue work clothes sweeping the floor, the sort of job many of Noble’s old high school friends had back home. The man stepped back as they approached. Noble met his eyes and nodded and was slightly troubled when the man looked away. Noble wondered if he had assumed he wouldn’t greet him in kind. I’m no better than you, Noble wanted to say.
A beautiful girl, long blonde hair contrasting with her black dress suit, and who appeared to be no older than Shelby, sat behind a mahogany desk. She wore an earpiece and gazed into the screen of a high-end computer. When she looked up at him, she smiled, her white teeth sparkling against a lightly suntanned face. He figured it must be the girl named Michelle who’d answered the phone when he first called. “This must be Noble Burden.”
“It is,” Cass affirmed. “Noble, this is Michelle Hatfield. Michelle, would you get us a couple of waters, please, and three copies of the papers I drew up last week? And did you confirm with Mr. Thomas?”
“Absolutely,” Michelle said, a little overly cheery in Noble’s opinion. “And yes, Mr. Thomas’s secretary confirmed he’ll be here in about five minutes.”
“Great.”
The view outside Cass’s office window was no less spectacular than the one in his home, the hills of Nashville and blooming azaleas all around them, and a courtyard shaded by locust and persimmon trees where a couple of other groups of people gathered in apparent business meetings. But Noble’s mind was stuck on the name Thomas.
“Do you mean Mack Thomas?”
“That’s the one.” Cass grinned.
“You didn’t tell me—”
“It’s a surprise. He’s been looking for a guitarist to rep for a while now. I gave him your demos and he wanted me to bring you in ASAP.”
Noble’s throat tightened with emotion. Mack Thomas was one of the biggest agent names in country music, and his artists had won at least half a dozen Grammys, probably more. Getting signed by him would be like winning the lottery. People worked for years and years to get to where Noble was sitting, and he’d done nothing except play at the Purple Onion on Rosie’s tenderloin night. He’d heard fairy tales of this sort of thing happening to people, but not to people like him.
Cass had been going on about some introductory paperwork and Noble had been too shocked to listen until Michelle knocked on the door. “Mr. Dinsmore? Mack Thomas is here.”
Cass stood and Noble after him as Thomas entered the room. He was much shorter than Noble had imagined, and looked like he’d come from a hipster magazine ad shoot, wearing skinny jeans, a T-shirt that mentioned something about peace, a leather jacket, and a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses.
“Is this our prodigy?” Thomas grinned at Noble and extended a hand.
“It is,” Cass said.
“Have you shown him a studio?”
“No, we were waiting on you.”
Noble picked up his guitar and followed the two men to a studio featuring enormous sound boards and state-of-the-art acoustics that left Noble speechless.
Thomas must’ve sensed the intimidation he’d been trying to hide. “Don’t worry about all that stuff. We just want to hear you.”
The three of them sat together in a circle on tall wooden stools and made small talk as if trying to put Noble at ease as he took his guitar from the case and adjusted the strap around his neck.
“Alright, then.” He plucked and strummed the strings until they were in tune. “I hope what I got for you is okay. It’s not fancy or nothin’. But it’s what I got.”
“Well, the blue’s still in the water and the blue’s still in the sky
And way beyond the blue there’s someone watchin’ from on high . . .”
Whatever nerves Noble’d had when he’d begun were lost as he focused on the beat of the music, the way it felt when his voice blended in with the melody and he couldn’t tell where his singing stopped and the chords began. He nearly forgot where he was, in a real studio, in front of a real agent, in Nashville, Tennessee, until he finished improvising and got to the end of the song:
“He’ll be there
Like he always is to answer when I call him.”
He strummed the last chord and the two men stared at him. Noble couldn’t tell if they were stunned, abhorred, or impressed. He knew the style was chancy, but it wasn’t any different from what he’d played the night Cass had come to the Onion. And it did lend itself to showing them some pretty good riffs and improvisati
on.
Cass had been pressing his fingers like a church steeple against his chin the entire time Noble played. “Johnny Cash.”
“Yessir.”
Thomas didn’t say anything.
Anxiety roiled inside Noble. He must’ve blown it. Of course he’d blown it. Who in the world would sing old Johnny Cash in front of a potential agent? He shoulda picked something more modern . . .
“Hooooo-ey, son!” Thomas finally said and turned to Cass. “How in the world could he be better in person than on that demo?”
“Told ya,” Cass said.
Noble caught himself as he swayed a little on the stool.
“Tell me, Noble. Can you read music, or do you play by ear?” Thomas asked.
“A little of both. I can play bass, too, if you need bass. But I prefer acoustic.” He shifted his weight.
Thomas got up and set a music stand in front of him and set a piece of sheet music on it, the notes—not uncomplicated—written by hand. “Play this. Then I’ll have you sight-read some vocals.”
Noble obliged and watched as they each scribbled on their papers, which appeared from his vantage point to be score sheets of some kind.
“Noble Burden,” Thomas said when he was done.
“Yessir.”
“I am quite impressed.”
“Sir.”
“Tell me. We’d like to know a little about you personally, why you want to be part of this.” Thomas waved his hand around the studio.
“Well . . .” Noble considered the question and tried to be as honest as he could. No use putting on airs in front of them at this point. “I guess you could say I do the best I can with what I got. And I believe if God’s given you a gift, it’s your duty to use it.”
They appeared to be studying him, and he felt more heat rise and prickle around his neck. He adjusted his guitar strap, which didn’t really need adjusting. Clearly that wasn’t the answer they were looking for.
