Nashville - Boxed Set Series - Part One, Two, Three and Four (A New Adult Contemporary Romance)

by Inglath Cooper

  Just as quickly, I remember what it felt like to lose it.

  “How is Sarah?” I ask.

  “She’s great,” he says. “Actually, really great.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I say. Thomas has filled me in on her treatments, some of it good, some of it not, and I’m relieved to hear Holden say she’s doing well now. “How is Patsy?”

  “Bossy and opinionated,” he says.

  I smile at this. “What Beagle isn’t?”

  Holden’s eyes reflect his fondness for the dog, and I’m happy for her.

  “Thomas says y’all are playing all over town. Glad to hear it’s going well.” The words sound sincere enough, although there’s a flatness there that makes me wonder if he’s tried to distance himself from thoughts of it.

  “We’ve been having fun,” I say, wondering if Thomas has told him about the tour with Case.

  But then Thomas says, “Yeah, about that. We’ve actually got some pretty cool news too, Holden. Case Phillips has asked us to replace the opening act for his tour. We’ve got three weeks to look like we know what the heck we’re doing.”

  Holden’s face registers surprise. “Whoa. That’s amazing.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Thomas agrees. He hesitates before adding, “Beck will be joining us.”

  This time the surprise in Holden’s eyes is etched with something else, flashing so quickly that I can’t be sure if it’s admiration or regret. “Cool,” he says. “I didn’t know you’d been playing together.”

  “We haven’t,” I say.

  “Oh,” he says, as if he suddenly understands, when I’m sure he doesn’t.

  “Until now, it’s just been CeCe and me.” Thomas stops there, and then, “Now that you’re here, why don’t you join us? We need an electric guitar. Who better than you?”

  The suggestion takes Holden as much by surprise as it does me, if the look on his face is any indication. “Hey, no. This is y’all’s thing. And it’s great. I’m not horning in on your action.”

  Thomas looks at me, trying to gauge my reaction. I don’t give him one.

  “Man, with the exception of Sarah, we’d have Barefoot Outlook back together. You were part of what we started here.”

  “And I left.”

  “And you’re back,” Thomas says.

  “For good?” I say before I can stop the question from popping out.

  “I don’t really know yet,” Holden answers.

  “But what about Sarah and-” I stop and immediately apologize. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

  “No. It’s okay,” Holden says. “Sarah and I are. . .we’re going to be good friends.”

  I absorb this explanation the way I imagine a mountainside might work at absorbing a sudden deluge of rain. It is simply too much to take in so unexpectedly, and I nod once as if I understand, when I do not at all.

  “Things are different now,” Thomas says, in an obvious attempt to bridge a gap that cannot or will not be clearly defined at the moment. “I want you with us.”

  Holden and I aren’t looking at each other. We both have our gazes hooked on Thomas, who’s wearing a stubborn expression I recognize all too well.

  “Look,” he adds, “we all came here for the music. We’ve hit a few speed bumps and taken a couple of detours, but it still comes back to the fact that we live it, breathe it, love it. We’re getting a break here with this tour. And we all know how hard those are to come by. We’ll have a far better shot at going somewhere with this if you’re part of it.”

  I let myself look at Holden, and it’s clear Thomas’s words mean something to him. I imagine then how it must have felt to be away from all of this for the past year and a half. To put the dream in a drawer and walk away from it, never intending to open it up again. And now. Another chance. Am I going to be the one to stand in his way? If so, what will that really accomplish?

  One thing and one thing only. The protection of my own heart. My own pride. Getting over Holden, if I ever did actually reach a point where it qualified as that, took every bit of will I could scrape up from the bottom of my determination to accept something I could not change. I built a wall around my heart and told myself I never wanted to fall like that again. And I don’t. The thought of being around Holden and not letting that happen is more than a little terrifying.

  Even so, I remember how Holden had been against me joining up with Thomas and him when we’d first gotten to Nashville. He’d changed his mind, and I’d been grateful for the chance.

  How can I be the one to close him out now?

  I can’t.

  Not even when I’m aware of exactly how high a price I’m going to pay for making this choice.

  ♪

  THOMAS KNOCKS ON my door at seven the next morning. I know his knock by now, and I consider pretending not to have heard it, but I lift up and mumble, “Come in.”

  He steps in the room, walks over and sits down on the edge of the bed. Hank Junior cracks an eye open, then puts his head back on my pillow and ignores him.

  “CeCe?” Thomas says.

  “Yeah?” I answer, my gaze on the wall.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “You know what.”

  “I figure I owe you both for picking me up on the side of the highway.”

  “That was no biggie.”

  “Yeah, it was. I very well could have turned around and walked Hank and me back home at that point. If I believed in signs, I would have. So we’re even.”

  “That’s not a debt I would’ve called in.”

  “I know.”

  “I guess you also know Holden tried to do what he thought was right in going back to Atlanta to be there for Sarah. He pretty much gave up everything to do that.”

  I nod.

  “And I know this isn’t easy for you.”

  “I’m a big girl, Thomas. And I have someone in my life. What happened between Holden and me is part of our past. That’s all.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Very,” I say. “There is one thing though.”

  “What?”

  “I’d like for you to be the one to tell Beck about Holden. I think it will sting less.”

  “Sure. We really do need him, you know. It’s not like we’re creating a spot for him.”

  I want to deny it, but the truth is we’ll be lucky to have him. “We should start working today.”

  “As soon as we’re done with the recording, I’ll text you.”

  “Beck said we can practice at his house.”

  “Cool,” he says, standing. “CeCe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re awesome.”

  “Don’t forget it,” I say, looking up at him with an attempt to stay stern-faced, and failing.

  He leans over and kisses my cheek. “I won’t,” he says.

  ♪

  31

  Holden

  “You know how you’ve dreamed about something for so long that it starts to feel like if it ever actually happened, it wouldn’t even seem real?”

  Thomas asks me the question in a low whisper while we are sitting behind Hart Holcomb’s producer and a recording engineer in a Music Row studio complete with every piece of sound equipment I could ever imagine having access to. Hart is warming up inside the booth, going through parts of the song time and again, and it feels anything but real to hear him singing the words I wrote. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s what I’m thinking right now.”

  “It really is like you wrote it for him.”

  “Pretty sad though, you know.”

  “But maybe someone who hears it will think twice about having another drink and then getting behind the wheel. If one person’s life is saved, that makes you a hero.”

  “I’m not the one who’ll be selling it to people.”

  “No, but they’re your words.”

  I don’t say anything else because hearing Hart sing the last line makes my throat close up. With the fade of
the final note, there’s a collective breath blown out around the room.

  “Wow, Hart,” the producer says. “That’s just plain powerful.”

  Hart clears his throat and takes a swig of water from the bottle next to him. “Thanks. And I’d like to thank Holden for writing it, y’all. He’s never lived the story of this song but the way he wrote it would make you think he has. That’s the mark of a great writer. I expect we’ll be seeing you in big places, Holden.”

  Everyone is looking at me now. I don’t have any idea what to say. Thomas claps me on the shoulder, and I finally manage, “Thank you so much. If this is the only song of mine that ever gets cut, I’ll be all right with that. This is an honor. Really.”

  Hart smiles at me and through the sadness in his eyes, I glimpse a man I hope will one day know happiness again. Tragedy has clearly taken its toll on him. It’s nice to think that maybe in putting out a song that might stop one person from causing the kind of pain he’s known, there could be some renewal of purpose for him.

  They play through it one more time before the producer says, “You ready to do it for real, Hart?”

  “Ready,” he says.

  The studio is pin-drop quiet throughout the entire song, and I’m amazed that both Hart and the band hit every note perfectly and don’t stop even once.

  “Whoa,” Thomas says when they’re done. “Pretty impressive,” I say.

  By the time they lay the background vocals, it’s after four o’clock. Just as the producer declares it a wrap, a guy in a jacket and jeans walks into the studio, speaks for a moment with Hart and then comes over to where Thomas and I are getting up to go.

  He says hello to Thomas and sticks his hand out to me. “You must be Holden. I’m Andrew Seeger, Hart’s manager. I hear things went incredibly well today.”

  “It was amazing to watch,” I say.

  “I’m glad it’s all worked out.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a folded pack of papers. “Sorry I didn’t get this over sooner but this is our standard contract. I believe you’ll find the terms extremely appealing. As I’m sure you’ve already figured out, Hart really wanted this song.”

  I unfold the papers and glance through the first page, my eyes widening at the numbers there. “Wow. That’s. . .thank you.”

  “We’re expecting big things from this. Get ready. I think you’re going to be amazed by the number of knocks you’ll be getting on your door.”

  “Thank you,” I say again, because I have no idea what else to add. I sign my name on the places he indicates I should sign. We shake hands and then I walk over and thank Hart again.

  Thomas and I say nothing until we’re in his truck and pulling out of the parking lot.

  “Did that just happen?” Thomas asks.

  “As far as I can tell, it was real.”

  “Dang.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re gonna be famous.”

  “Shut up.”

  Thomas grins. “Don’t go all modest. You earned it. It’s a great song.”

  “Thanks, but luck has to play some part in it. You think I ever imagined something like this?”

  “No,” Thomas interrupts. “I don’t. You still deserve it.”

  “You’re a good friend, Thomas,” I say, suddenly serious and wishing I knew how to say how much it means to me that any success either one of us has is never ruined by resentment or jealousy.

  “Speaking of which,” he segues, “I called Beck when you were talking with Hart after we first got to the studio.”

  “How’d that go?” I ask, suddenly sure I know what the answer will be.

  “He was totally cool with it,” Thomas says. “I gotta say, it’s not what I was expecting.”

  “That’s kind of a surprise.”

  “Just so you know, I don’t think he’s worried about you sweeping CeCe off her feet.”

  I consider this, weigh my conflicting responses and decide on, “He doesn’t need to be.”

  “Doesn’t he?” Thomas asks, looking over at me, dead serious.

  “No.”

  “Can we have an honest moment here?”

  “Thomas, I-”

  “Hear me out, okay. I think it needs to be said.” He taps a thumb against the steering wheel and then goes on with, “It took a long time for CeCe to start acting like herself again. You put a pretty big dent in her heart, friend.”

  There’s no criticism in the statement, just flat truth. “I never meant to hurt her,” I say.

  “I know. If we’re playing together, maybe it really would be best for things to stay the way they are. Everybody knows it’s difficult for groups to stay together. And for whatever reason, Case wants Beck in on this gig. War between you two would pretty much dump the whole thing in the landfill.”

  “Thanks, friend.”

  “You can’t deny it, can you?”

  I want to but I actually don’t think I can. “No,” I say.

  “It seems like Beck is good to her,” Thomas says, clearly not enjoying this.

  “That’s good.”

  “It really is.” He looks out the window as if thinking twice about what he’s about to say. “You two could have been really good together. There’s a lot of water under that particular bridge, and I’d hate to see either one of you-”

  “Drown?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You don’t need to say anything else. I get it.”

  “Then why do I feel like such a jerk?”

  ♪

  WE GET TO BECK’S place just as an enormous storm cloud breaks open and dumps rain so fast and hard that the driveway looks like a small river. We pull in at the front of the house behind a BMW. Beck slides out of the driver’s side and runs around with an umbrella to open the passenger door. CeCe gets out and ducks under it, laughing as they run inside.

  I watch them with a sense of loss that I know I have no right to feel. But it’s there anyway, like a kick to the gut.

  “You sure you’re gonna be able to do this?” Thomas asks.

  “I’m good,” I say, the question prodding me to slide out of the truck. I grab my guitar case from its spot between us. Thomas walks around, and I follow him to the door. He rings the bell.

  The door swings open, and Beck says, “Y’all get in out of the rain.”

  “Hey, man,” Thomas says, walking inside.

  I walk in behind him and stick a hand out to Beck. “Hey. Good to see you again.”

  “You too,” Beck says with what looks like a genuine smile. “Glad it worked out that you can hook up with us on the tour. Dad was psyched about it.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I really appreciate the chance to be here.” I want to be suspicious of his friendliness. I mean, why would he want me back here? If I were him, I wouldn’t let me within fifty miles of CeCe. But then, maybe he’s that confident of what they have going.

  We follow him through the long hallway that I remember as leading to his dad’s studio. CeCe is already there, warming up when we walk in. I haven’t heard her sing since leaving here – correction – haven’t let myself hear her sing since leaving here. Her voice has taken on new dimension and power. She sounds amazing.

  She smiles at Beck and Thomas but stops short of meeting eyes with me. “Y’all ready to do this thing?”

  “Let’s jump on it,” Thomas says. “Should we go through a playlist first?”

  “Sure,” Beck says.

  “CeCe and I can highlight the songs we’ve been doing. Holden, you got any good new stuff?”

  “I’ve got new stuff. Not sure if it’s any good or not.”

  “Check the modesty,” Thomas says. “Ladies and gents, you’re looking at Hart Holcomb’s prediction for one of this town’s up and coming hit songwriters.”

  Both Beck and CeCe glance at me with a look of surprise. It’s CeCe who speaks first.

  “So it went well?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “He’s an incredible singer.”

  �
�Congratulations,” Beck says. “That’s big stuff. Sounds like you’ve impressed him. I’ve heard my dad say that’s not an easy thing to do.”

  “I think I got a lucky break,” I say. “Right song. Right place.”

  We all pull up a chair at the round table in one corner of the room. From there, we start talking about songs, compiling a list of the best we have and then working out the playlist.

  Beck knows all of the songs CeCe and Thomas have been singing from having been at so many of their shows. They ask me to play some of my new stuff. I put my thoughts on the individual songs and try not to think about the fact that Beck has entwined his fingers with CeCe’s as if she’s just been taken under by an unexpected current and it is up to him to save her.

  And I wonder if he’s that sure of her, after all.

  ♪

  32

  CeCe

  We spend the next five hours practicing song after song, perfecting some Thomas and I already know well and then working on several new ones Holden says he wrote over the past year.

  The songs are really good, and I’m relieved to see that he has continued to write. Our upbeat songs outnumber the ballads six to one, and we all agree that as the opening act, we want to get the audience up and ready to have a good time.

  At first, I’m so nervous that I forget lines to songs I know by heart. I actually feel every single time Holden glances at me, but I manage not to look back. I know it’s crazy. After all, how can I expect to get through an entire tour without looking at him? Whatever it is holding in place all of my determination to make this work feels about as fragile as baby grass under an April frost.

  It’s almost ten when we call it a wrap. I’m as tired from the effort of smiling and trying to act normal as I am from the rehearsing.