"Your ten acres and home outside of Nashville. The mortgage is almost a year past due."
"I don't have a mortgage on that property. It was my grandparents' and they left it to me in their wills. It's paid for." He scratched a hand through his dark hair. He really needed to shower. "What time is it? Why are you calling me at the break of dawn?" He squinted at the clock on the wall but couldn't see it clearly.
"Mr. Harper, it's just after ten a.m. I have the documentation on the mortgage on my desk. A loan against the property was opened just under two years ago, and payments were being made until one year ago. We'd like you to come in this afternoon if possible."
"This afternoon." Trace grabbed a half-empty beer from the coffee table and sat down on the couch. He took a swallow, then spit it out into a coffee cup on the table. He poured the rest of the beer - including a cigarette butt - into the cup. "I'll be there this afternoon, with my grandparents' wills and deed to the property. I never took out a mortgage and the property is paid for."
"Mr. Harper, I need you to come in so this can be cleared up. Would two be good?"
"Two?" He shook his head. He needed to wake up and pay attention.
"Yes, two o'clock here at the bank."
"Two is fine. I'll be there and we'll get this straight." The fog was beginning to clear from his brain and he was starting to think again.
"I will see you then, Mr. Harper. Goodbye." The phone clicked in his ear.
"Damn." Trace hung up the phone and headed on unsteady legs to the shower.
###
Trace pushed open the doors at First Tennessee Bank just before two o'clock. His headache hadn't quite left from its morning visit and he was still annoyed at the bank's phone call from earlier.
He walked across the quiet bank, his booted feet tapping on the marble floor to the mahogany customer service desk.
"May I help you?" the pretty brunette at the desk asked, smiling in greeting with the fake Leave-Me-Alone smile that most customer service representatives sport.
"I sure hope so." Trace noticed her name placard as he approached the desk and leaned over the counter. He smiled, pushed his hat back on his head and turned on the Tennessee charm. "Well, Peggy, I got a call from you all this morning about my account. Trace Harper."
Peggy's bright smile faded. "Oh, Mr. Harper. Let me get Mr. Elliott, our bank manager, for you." She was on the phone in a hot minute, turning away from Trace as she whispered into the phone. She soon turned around, hanging up the receiver. "Mr. Elliott will be right out to see you, Mr. Harper. Would you like to have a seat in our waiting area?" Her friendly demeanor had definitely turned all business since he'd said his name.
"Sure, Peggy. Hey, do you know what all this is about?" May as well try to charm something from Peggy while he was there. He flashed another of his brilliant performer smiles.
"I'm sorry, I don't. But I'm sure Mr. Elliott can explain everything." Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. Something was going on, Trace was sure of it. Peggy probably knew more than she let on. Most likely everyone at the bank knew something about his business and it would be all over some country music information website within the hour..
Trace moved away from Peggy's desk toward the waiting area, but before he could sit in one of the Queen Anne chairs and browse the magazines on the low table, a short, dumpy man wearing an ill-fitting suit appeared from the back of the bank. He was balding and sweating and as he came closer to Trace he pushed a pair of bifocals further up the bridge of his nose.
"Mr. Harper, thank you for coming in. I'm Mike Elliott, bank manager." He reached his hand out to shake hands. Trace took it reluctantly.
"Thank you, Mr. Elliott. Now what's going on with my account, and what's this about a mortgage?" Trace knew there hadn't been a lot of money in his account, but there was some, right? But the one thing he knew for sure, there was no way there was a mortgage on his grandparents' farm.
"Let's go to my office, Mr. Harper. It's right down the hall." The short, pudgy bank manager turned and waddled as he walked down the hall. Trace followed him down a carpeted hallway, photos of past presidents and managers lining the walls, and into an office on the right. Mike sat behind the desk, and Trace took a seat in a surprisingly comfortable wing back chair.
"Now, Mr. Harper, we can discuss things in private. I understand you're a musician."
"Yes, I am. I'm a Grammy-winning musician." Trace leaned back in the chair, propping a booted ankle on a jean-clad knee, offering the bank manager his 'I'm a star' smile that reporters and fans ate up.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Harper. I don't really follow current music so please forgive me for not knowing who you are. I'm more of a classical man myself." Mike chuckled at his joke.
Trace's smile faded, his eyes narrowed. The man didn't know who he was? How was that possible? Especially in a city filled with country singers. Hell, he could run into two or three of the Top Twenty performers shopping at the Nashville Wal-Mart.
"I understand times may be hard, and I know your work may not pay regularly, but I have been told by the Board of Directors that we must close your account." The manager continued.
Trace came out of his fog and sat up in the chair, his booted foot clomping to the floor. "Close my account? Why?"
"Mr. Harper, over the past three years you have overdrawn with us multiple times. Your account is overdrawn again and as I stated on the phone, your mortgage is behind by a year." Mike opened a folder and took out papers, fee notices, copies of canceled checks and loan documents that had been red-stamped PAST DUE.
"I know I've been overdrawn before, but I've always made good on it. Let me see this so-called mortgage." A cold sweat began to trickle down Trace's neck.
Mike pulled the loan document from the package and handed it to Trace, reaching across his cluttered desk. "Yes, you have paid everything back, but it has taken you some time. Once we waited almost six months before your account was in the black. As far as the mortgage goes, I'm afraid we're going to have to start foreclosure procedures on the property within the month."
Trace could not believe this man, this bank manager who didn't know him from Adam, had the nerve to say that their bank didn't want his business anymore. He took the stack of papers and began flipping through them. Sure enough, it was a mortgage on his grandparents' property. He flipped to the back of the package, saw the amount, and the signatures.
"Mr. Harper, the Board has decided that we've done all we can for you. We waived your fees in the past, and we could have started foreclosure as early as eight months ago. It was only due to the issues with the economy and so many of our customers requesting assistance with their mortgages that yours was overlooked. But we can't overlook this any longer. As of today you owe this bank fifteen thousand dollars in past due payments and fees, plus the balance on the mortgage."
"What the hell?" Trace stared at the amount borrowed and the signatures on the back page of the loan packet. "She borrowed seventy thousand dollars on my property? How the hell can she do that and I not know about it?" He slammed the papers on the manager's desk.
Mike picked them up and looked at the signature page. "Mrs. Harper took out this mortgage four years ago. She produced documentation that the property she put up for collateral was jointly owned. Yes, there is a power of attorney here, signed by you, stating that she could handle personal financial matters for you during this time. That's why your signature wasn't required. All the paperwork was in order."
"Damn, I knew I should have listened to Charlie. I should not have signed that power of attorney over to her." He stood and began pacing the office. The bank fees, fine. There was no doubt that they were his fault. He liked to party, he enjoyed going out, he enjoyed buying beautiful women beautiful things. But the mortgage, the mortgage on the one thing that meant the most to him in the entire world, that he did not do.
"That mortgage is not mine." Anger shot through him. He banged his hand down on the desk over the stack of papers and his voice was
cold, hard. "My ex-wife, she did this. I did give her the power-of-attorney, but the property was no jointly owned. She never should have been able to take out a mortgage. We divorced almost two years ago."
Mike stood as well, and met Trace eye-to-eye over his desk. "I understand you're upset, Mr. Harper. But if you do not calm down, I will call security and have you escorted out. Am I clear?"
Trace felt waves of anger flowing through him -- anger at his ex-wife, anger at the bank, anger at himself. He couldn't breathe. He wanted to tell this fat, balding little waste of skin what he could do with the debt. Then he wanted to do it again, to Trixie, his no-good thief, liar and cheat of an ex-wife. Since that wasn't going to happen -- at least, not right now -- he sat down, not saying a word.
"Wonderful." Mike returned to his seat as well and flipped through a printed spreadsheet. "Payments did continue from your account up until a year ago. They were handled by Charlie Cahill of Cahill Management. Do you know him?" He looked expectantly at Trace.
Trace slumped in the visitor's wing-back chair. "Charlie was my manager. He recently passed away. He started getting sick about a year ago, so he may have missed paying some bills. My management company handles most of my financial transactions."
A cold, clammy sickness rose inside him. He recognized fear. He'd seen it before, felt it before. But this fear was different, stronger. He could not lose his grandparents' land. It meant so much to him to still have that property, to be able to visit it whenever he needed to feel closer to them, even though he couldn't bring himself to live there. Being there, without them, hurt too much.
Trace felt as if a sword was hanging over his head, ready to steal everything he cared about out from under him. "I have the divorce papers at home. Trixie Harper took out this mortgage without my knowledge. I can't pay it back, but if you give me a chance, I will do whatever it takes. I can't lose my property."
"Mr. Harper, it's too late. The past due payments and are over fifteen thousand dollars and the balance of the mortgage is over seventy thousand. The bank has to start foreclosure proceedings."
The fear continued to churn inside his gut, crawl over the skin on his back and neck. He couldn't lose his grandparents' farm, the place he'd essentially grown up when he visited them each summer, leaving his single mother in Chicago so she could work with him out of her hair. It was the only place he'd ever felt welcomed, the only place he'd ever been loved. He'd fallen in love with the south, fallen in love with Nashville, fallen in love with the land where he'd learned how to ride, how to grow a garden, how to play the guitar. He thought of his grandfather, sitting with him on the wide front porch in the early evening, teaching him the chords, the finger movements. He still had that old acoustic, stuck in a closet in his apartment. Since his grandparents had passed away six years ago he hadn't been able to bring himself to play it. And now it was all going to be gone.
No, that wasn't going to happen. Trixie wasn't getting away with this. I'm Trace Harper. I'm a Grammy-winning recording artist. Something can be done. A flash through his mind and he had it, right in front of him. Charlie's funeral Patrick had mentioned an offer he wanted to run by him while they were at Charlie's funeral, but Trace had blown him off, said he didn't want to hear anything. He needed to speak to Patrick and find out about this offer. It could be the way out.
"I need to call my agent. Is there somewhere I can speak to him in private?" It took all Trace had to stay calm.
"You're welcome to stay here, Mr. Harper. I need to head upstairs for a few moments anyway. I'll be back in about ten or fifteen minutes."
"That should do. Thank you." Mike left the office, waddling in his ill-fitting suit. Trace took out his cell phone and called Patrick's direct line. His agent answered on the second ring.
"Hey, Trace, what's going on?" Trace could hear Patrick's radio playing in the background and knew his friend wasn't in his office but in his car.
"Patrick, can you meet with me today about that offer you mentioned a few weeks ago, the one you mentioned at Charlie's funeral?"
"You said you didn't want to hear it."
"You haven't contacted someone else, have you? I changed my mind. How much does it pay?"
"Don't you even want to know what it is? You're not going to like it."
"I don't care what it is, I'll take it. Can you meet me somewhere? I don't want to take a chance on losing your signal."
"It pays a hundred grand and should last about ten weeks. It's for television."
TV. Crap. Trace closed his eyes. Patrick was right, Trace was probably not going to like it. But a hundred grand was a hundred grand, even after Patrick's cut, and it could be enough to save his land.
"I know you're in the car. Can you meet me in about half an hour? I'm downtown at the bank."
"Sure, but with an offer we need to meet with management. Have you found a replacement for Charlie yet?"
Lisa, the sexy blonde he'd first seen at the funeral then again at Six Guns Saturday night. She'd said something about needing to speak to him about his representation now that Charlie was gone, but after he'd been deluged by fans he'd lost her in the crowd. Then he'd spent the weekend so hung over he hadn't done anything but sleep and watch ESPN.
"Yeah, that blonde from the funeral, remember her? You said she worked with Charlie. The office is nearby. Give her a call, set it up. I'll be there in half an hour. And no matter what it is, Patrick, I'm in."
"Hey, Trace, you're not in trouble, are you?" Trace could hear the concern in Patrick's voice. They'd been friends as well as having a business relationship for many years and the man knew him well.
"Nothing serious, but I do need the money. I hope you have everything you need with you."
"I'll get my office to fax the documents to Lisa at Cahill-Waters after I speak with her. See you then."
"See you." Trace hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. He felt better, he was making progress. He had Patrick on board, Patrick was getting Lisa on board, now he just needed to get the bank on board. He sat back in the chair, settling in his favorite boot-on-knee position, and waited for the manager to return.
Mike was back a couple of minutes later, accompanied by a tall, thin woman in a silver-gray business suit. She took one look at Trace and began to gush.
"Mike, you didn't mention Trace Harper was in your office. You are The Trace Harper. I am such a fan. I loved that song, 'Til There Was You.' It was my wedding song." The woman didn't wait for him to stand. She walked over to the chair and hugged him.
Now, this was more like it. Trace turned on the charm. "Thank you, ma'am, I appreciate it." He hugged her back and tipped his hat. "I'd be happy to give you an autograph."
"Would you? I would love that." She took a pad of paper from the top of the Mike's desk and handed it to Trace. "Please make it out to Sheila and Brad. That's my husband."
"I'd be happy to." Trace wrote out a short sentiment and signed his name. He checked his watch and realized he needed to be meeting Patrick soon. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I need to finish discussing some things with the manager here regarding a loan."
"Yes, I'll be back in just a moment, Mr. Harper. I just needed to get some paperwork to Miss Nichols for the board meeting tomorrow."
"Board meeting? You're on the board?" Gears ground in Trace's head.
"Yes, I am. I'm Sheila Nichols, bank president. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Harper?" She extended her hand for a shake.
Ten minutes later Trace left the bank with a payment arrangement for the fifteen thousand in past due mortgage payments and overdrafts and a new arrangement for the balance on the mortgage, and all it took was an autograph and a photo - taken by Mike Eliott himself, with his self-appointed biggest fan, Sheila Nichols, Bank President.
Chapter Five
Lisa sighed as she glanced at the clock on the wall for what felt like the millionth time. Almost four. Thank God the day was almost over. She'd checked on some possible job openings, called the headhunters she'd
contacted last week and was promised a call back within next few days. Setting aside her personal projects, she'd been working on the list Boyd had emailed to her for most of the day.
Her phone rang just as she finished an email to another client's agent.
"Cahill-Waters, this is Lisa," she answered automatically.
"Lisa, Patrick Mitchell. I represent Trace Harper."
At the mention of Trace's name Lisa froze. In seconds she was back at the club, his hands on her hips, her breath hot on her ear. She shook her head. It was not the time to lose it. The phone call was perfect. She could tell his agent he'd been dropped and be done with the entire problem.
"Hello, Mr. Mitchell. I've been trying to reach you regarding Trace's representation here."
"I know, I got your messages. Look, now that you've taken over for Charlie, we need to get some paperwork done pretty soon. I had an offer for a TV show and Trace accepted. Could we meet with you in the next thirty minutes to get everything finalized?"
"What?" It took her a few seconds to realize what he'd said about taking over for Charlie. "Mr. Mitchell, I didn't--"
Before she could finish he interrupted her again. "I'm not sure what happened, but Trace called me about five minutes ago and accepted the offer. Your office is closer than mine, so we can all meet there, go over the terms, you guys get your cut, we get ours and everyone's happy."
Lisa was about to speak again, to explain he'd made a mistake, when Tanya's idea flashed into her head. Why not go out on her own? Maybe this was a sign, the Universe telling her to jump out on faith. Without allowing herself to have any second thoughts, she leaped.
"Sure, Patrick. Come on by. I'll be sure to have the conference room ready for us. Do you have the paperwork for your end? I'll get mine together."
"I'll have my office fax it over. They have your number."
"I'll be looking for it."
She carefully placed the receiver back on the phone. Okay, they would be there in thirty minutes. What did she need to do? There wasn't any time to waste. Lisa decided she would take the standard fifteen percent from Trace and use that, plus her savings, as start up money. Thoughts, plans, ideas, rammed into each other in her head like bumper cars, crowding her brain. She grabbed a notepad and started jotting down ideas, scribbling them across the paper so fast her hand couldn't keep up with her mind. Turning to her computer, she opened the standard contract used by Cahill-Waters and scanned through it, changing everything mentioning the company to her own name, then saved the file under a new name.
Hillbilly Rockstar Page 3
