A Nashville Collection (25 page)

“Lee's bringing me home,” I call to my girls. As far as I'm concerned, girl's night is over. Skyler waves to me like she'd expect nothing less and would give me the dickens if I didn't go off with him.

Blaire, meanwhile, asks Birdie, “How'd you get so freakishly fast?”

On the drive home, Lee and I chitchat.
How are you? Fine,
and you?
But once we pull into Birdie's, we hang back while the girls
flip-flop
and
clump-clank
up the porch steps.

“So . . .” I say, moving slowly up the walk. My insides shimmy, and my bones rattle like I'm cold.

“So,” Lee echoes. “I'm glad I ran into you.”

“I think we ran into you.” I brush my fingers through my bangs and wonder for the first time all night if I look all right. Hope there's no popcorn stuck in my teeth.

He laughs. “Guess you did.”

“Do you want to sit?” I ask, taking one of Birdie's big rockers.

Lee settles in the rocker next to mine, his clean fragrance reminding me of summer nights up in the hills after a slow rain.

“I thought about you a lot,” he mutters, putting his chair into motion.

“Yeah? I always look for you at church. You've missed a few Sundays.”

He reaches over and grabs my rocker, sliding it across the porch, closer to him. “My ex found a new church, so I went with her until she felt comfortable.”

“Must be some ex-fiancé to get this much attention from you.”

He slips his fingers through mine. “You know it's Janie Leeds, don't you?”

I look him in the eye. “I read about her in Brad Schmitt's column.”

“I figured.” He starts the rocker swaying, back and forth, his fingers still gripping mine. “I didn't want to make a big deal about it, Robin.”

“Too late—dating Janie Leeds is a big deal.”

He rests his head on the back of the rocker. “From the outside, I guess it might seem like a big deal.”

“How'd you meet?”

“I built her manager's new house. She'd just come off a world tour and wanted to settle down. I'd finally gotten my business to a place where it didn't consume me 24/7. We met, hit it off. It seemed like providence at first.”

“She's beautiful, isn't she?” My words catch.

“Yes.” He glances over at me. “But why does it matter?”

“Because she captured your heart.”

“She did, for awhile.”

“You asked her to marry you.” For the first time, I feel the weight of those words,
Will you marry me?

“Janie's a lyrical, magical person. She has this unique ability to make people love her. It's one of the reasons she's so popular with the public.”

I slide out of the rocker and prop my shoulder against the stone porch post. “Lyrical? Magical? Those are powerful words. Are you sure you're over her?”

“Long over her. Before I met you.” Lee leans forward and gazes beyond me into the night. “We said our final good-bye two weeks ago.”

“I see.” I can't look at him, because all my senses are going crazy trying to figure out what to think, how to feel, how to be.

“I didn't call,” he starts, “because I wanted to clear my head, make sure
she
had finally moved on.”

“Oh.”

He gets up and walks over to me. “I can't change the fact that we were engaged, Robin. But what about you? Have you moved on? What about your guy back home?”

“We ended things Fourth of July. But Lee, when Ricky asked me to marry him, I said no. He's not lyrical and magical. More like kind but ornery. And he has a unique ability to draw people close and then irritate the crap out of them.”

He laughs and leans against the porch rail, arms crossed. “Lyrical, magical people can be irritating, too. There's no denying I fell for Janie, but Robin, we weren't meant to be.”

Well, I'm stubborn, but not stupid. I scoot over and rest lightly against him. “I'm glad you're here.”

“Me too. Glad I needed toilet paper and dish soap.”

Skyler pokes her head out the door. “You two want some ice cream?”

“No,” we answer, arms still touching.

“Robin, it's over between Janie and me.”

“How do I know she won't suddenly need you again?” Without actually saying it, I want him to get how it feels to be me after he's dated the beautiful, talented,
lyrical
artist Janie.

He slips his arm around my waist. My heart beats faster. “You don't. You have to trust me.”

Smoothing my hands down the soft cotton of his shirt, I remind him, “Trust is earned.”

“I suppose it is.” He pulls me closer so my cheek rests against his chest. We hold each other for a few minutes, but too soon, Lee says, “I should get going. It's late.”

I swallow. “Yeah, I suppose.”

He stops at the edge of the porch steps. “So, are you available for coffee?”

I cross my arms and twist my lips into a sly grin. He remembered
.
“Yeah, I'm available for coffee.”

23

Lee and I join Skyler, Blaire, Walt, and Birdie at the Green
Hills Grille for after-church lunch the second Sunday in September.

“Hey, everyone.” I reach for the chair next to Blaire, but she blocks me.

“I'm saving this for Ezra.” She blushes.

“Well, well, excuse me.” Turns out the Harris Teeter manager, Ezra Longoria, is a good man who charmed Blaire's heart. Why else would she switch from being a Methodist to a Baptist? They've been dating ever since our buggy race.

The server takes our drink order, and the lunch conversation is lively and fun. Birdie and Walt have signed a deal to write songs with Eric Exley for a new pop-country singer he's producing, Juli Love.

“No guarantees, you know,” Birdie tells us, minimizing her newfound success, “but we're having fun.”

Lee drapes his arm around the back of my chair, stroking my arm with his thumb as if to remind me he's there. I settle against him and listen as Walt asks about renovating a room in his home for a recording studio.

The second table conversation is Skyler rattling on about her latest client, who signed a mega-deal with Curb Records.

“Speaking of singing,” Birdie jumps in, nudging me, “are you ready for your writer's night debut at the Bluebird? I know it's not until November, but . . .”

I reach for the ketchup bottle, trying to ignore the spazz-ing butterflies in my middle. “I'm ready, I think. Maybe.” I pound the bottom of the bottle with the heel of my hand. “How will I know? Fear is so unpredictable.”

Walt chuckles with a light shake of his head. “I remember the first time I heard Birdie singing.”

In one accord, we all angle toward Walt. “Do tell,” I say.

“Hush, Walt,” Birdie protests, patting him on the hand. “They don't need to know ancient history—”

“A bunch of us had gone out to Kris Kristofferson's place for fun and food. Guess it was around '71. Ain't that right, Birdie?”

“This is your story, Walt. Now don't be asking me.”

I catch her eye. Yeah, it was '71.

“Anyway, Guy Clark, Johnny Cash, Ray Price, Harlan Howard, and Willie Nelson were there. Lots of other friends and folks. Naturally, we get to pulling guitars, sitting around playing and singing. Willie does his own version of ‘Crazy.'” He nudges Birdie with a wink.

“I love that song,” Skyler says.

“Apparently, so did Birdie,” Walt says, his grey eyes snapping playfully.

Birdie props her chin in her hand. “Do tell, Walt Henry, if you know so much.”

Walt kisses her cheek, then goes on with his story. “Well, we played and hummed along with Willie, then out of nowhere came this
voice
.” Walt holds his hands apart. “This giant voice.”

“Oh, please, now you're exaggerating.” Birdie drums her fingers on the tabletop.

“We started craning our necks, you know,” Walt says, “Who's brought the pipes to the party? It was this little blonde girl with eyes the size of golf balls.”

Birdie slaps his shoulder. “Golf balls?”

“We stopped playing, but she just kept on singing. When she realized she was the show, her face turned all beet red, but we gave her a standing ovation.” Walt laughs. “Saw her again about two years later. She'd just signed with RCA.”

Something about the story ignites my courage. An inkling, but courage none the less. “Must have been an incredible night, Birdie. How'd you get invited?”

“A songwriter friend of mine. He left town the next year, but his invitation changed my life. Through folks at that barbecue, I met the legendary Chet Atkins, who was then running RCA Nashville.”

“Studio B,” I mutter, “when did you switch to Nashville Noise?”

“When James formed the company, I'd ended my deal with RCA, was looking for something new, and he convinced me I needed to go with him. He produced my first platinum album.”

In one accord, we all sit back.
Shew.

“Robin,” Walt starts, reaching for his tea, “you keep fighting. Dig deep for that song only you can write. Tell a great story in a unique way, then wrap it all up with a sweet melody. You'll be begging to get up on that stage.”

I wince. “Gee, Walt, is that all?”

“Mark my words. And listen, cowriting is great, but don't stop working it out on your own. Develop your writing. Believe me, you'll get there.”

From his lips to God's ears.

Lee pulls in behind me at Birdie's and waves me over to his
rolled-down window. “Let's go downtown.”

“Why?” Lunch at the Green Hill Grille was good, but now I'm sleepy, ready for my Sunday afternoon nap.

“I want to show you something.”

I grin and prop my arm on the door. “Can I trust you?”

Lee brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. “I think you can.”

“Okay, but be warned, I know ka-ra-tay.” I jump back and hold my hands like Jackie Chan.

He laughs. “Get in.”

We cruise down Demonbreun in the easy, Sunday-afternoon traffic and park behind the Country Music Hall of Fame.

“This is my surprise? A trip to the Hall of Fame?” I ask, walking along the side of the great building.

“Yep, this is it. Your destiny.”

I bump him with my shoulder. “Right.” A quote etched in one of the foundation stones stops me. “‘A good country song takes a page out of somebody's life and puts it to music. Conway Twitty.'”

Lee wraps his arms around me and reads another quote over my shoulder. “‘Country music isn't a guitar, it isn't a banjo, it isn't a melody, it isn't a lyric. It's a feeling. Waylon Jennings.'”

“Those are the types of songs I want to write, adding in a dash of God's true love and hope.”

“You will,” Lee says, and leads me inside the Hall, where he buys two tickets. Together we journey through the history of the world's best music.

“Imagine how it must feel to play music of your heart and soul,” I say, reading an exhibit about the Carter family. “Then have it shape a generation.”

“Pretty amazing.” Lee gazes down at me. “Just think—one day, it'll be you.”

I peer into his eyes to see if he's teasing, figuring a man might say sweet-nothings to a girl he's wooing. “Do you know something I don't know?”

“Yes, you're special.” Lee takes my hand. “After being around Janie and people in the business, I can recognize the will-bes from the wannabes.”

“And I'm a will-be?”

He nods. “The day I met you at Birdie's, I knew you were different.”

“Like a freak-of-nature different, or what?”

“No.” He laughs and shuffles me off to the next display. “You're like a cool breeze in a stale, hot room. A budding rose in the desert.”

“Budding rose in the desert. Very nice.” I tug my notebook from my pocket.
Cool breeze . . . budding rose . . .
“Maybe
you
should be the songwriter.”

“Can't sing, can't rhyme, can't play.” He bends down as if he's going to kiss me, but doesn't. Since the night on Birdie's porch, we've hung out a dozen times, But still no taste of his lips.

“I sure hope you're right.” I slip my notebook back into my pocket, then wrap my arm around his waist and lean against him as we walk past the black-and-white exhibit of the early Opry days.

“Do you want to be in the Hall someday?”

I glance around. “I thought I
was
in the Hall.”

“Ha, funny girl, you know what I mean.”

Facing a picture of DeFord Bailey posing with his harmonica, I confess. “I reckon none of these folks played music with the idea of being famous in mind. They just did what they loved. That's what I want to do—and stand before God confident I used the gift He gave me. If I go on to do something grand like impacting a generation with my songs, that's His business.”

“See, that's why you're different. Fame is not important to you,” Lee says, adding a whistle as we come up on a gold Cadillac. “Can you picture Elvis behind the wheel?” He stoops to see inside the legend's gold-plated car.

“Too
rico
for me.” My eye catches the display of well-played, well-worn guitars, and I move on.

We finish the early-history side and mosey around to the present-day side. There's a whole showcase devoted to Nashville Noise and the legendary James Chastain.

“Lee, here's a picture of Birdie. And my momma.” I tap the Plexiglas, squinting. Momma will faint when I tell her the original photo of the Nashville Noise artists is in the Hall.

Lee props his hands on his knees. He looks at me, then back at the picture. “Who's this, now?” He wrinkles his forehead.

“See the woman with the dark curls and enormous smile? Right there next to James Chastain? That's my momma.”