A Nashville Collection (28 page)

“Love it. Fantastic song. Now, there's a hit song to study, Robin. The lyrics and the melody have perfect commercial appeal. Then, with a diva like Emma singing . . . mega-hit song.”

I lower my guitar in its case. My heart thumps when I ask, “You don't happen to know who wrote ‘I Wanna Be,' do you? Maybe I can look them up and get a few pointers.”

Susan slaps her hands together. “As a matter of fact, I do know who wrote the song. We were just talking about him this morning. He's long overdue. I'm so happy for him.”

I leave Susan West's office with steam whistling from my ears.
Graham Young. That low-down, lying, sneaking snake. I whip out my cell and dial him up. He doesn't answer—go figure—so I leave a message.

“Hey, it's Robin. Give me a call. Now!”

Climbing in my truck, I barrel up 17th Avenue South, getting madder by the minute. Darn it, what is he up to? I decide not to wait for his call; I'm hunting him down.

This makes no sense. Sure Graham's ambitious, but a thief ? A liar? My legs jitter involuntarily as I wait at the stoplight, my mind racing. Why? When? How?

“My song. My sophomoric song.” With a low growl, I slam the heel of my hand against the steering wheel. Stealing any of my songs would've been bad, but “Your Country Princess” is special to me. Didn't he know that?

When the light turns green, I gun the gas and head east on Wedgewood Avenue. At Graham's apartment, I pound on the door. “Graham. Open up.”

His neighbor peeks out. “He's gone, honey. Moved out about three weeks ago.”

“Where?” I demand.

She shrugs. “Didn't say. I ain't his keeper.”

My shoulders droop. “Guess not.”

My anger is morphing into tears. Talking to God and half muttering to myself, I work my way back to Music Row and the NSAI office. Surely Ella has seen him.

“Not since the day you were here,” she says with a pout. “Robin, you two don't have a thing, do you?”

“No, Ella, he's all yours. If there's anything left when I'm done with him.”

“What?”

“If you see him, tell him I'm looking for him.”

“No word from Graham?” Lee asks, tossing a DVD on the coffee
table while I spread out a Tennessee Titans blanket. Winter temperatures are descending on our October days.

“Not one. And I've called him every day for the last two weeks.”

He captures me and pulls me down to the couch with him. The leather crunches and squeaks as we land.

“What are you doing?” I laugh.

“We never talked about this, but did you really think I would give your song to Janie, or to anyone, without talking to you?” His eyes lock onto mine and hold on.

Squirming, I plead, “Insanity.”

He doesn't let me off so easy. “Trust works both ways, Robin.”

“Again, insanity.” Slipping my arms around his neck, I kiss him. “Forgive me?”

He brushes my hair away from my eyes. It's gotten long again since my May shearing, and my bangs touch the tip of my nose. “Absolutely.” His kiss reminds me why I love being a woman.

With that issue resolved, Lee cuts me loose and pops in the movie. He aims the remote and hits
Play
, then snuggles under the blanket next to me. Just when we're warm and cozy, and in the middle of Will Smith running from aliens, Momma calls.

“Can we bring fifty people?”

“To where, the Bluebird?”

“No, I'm calling about the state fair. Of course, the Bluebird.”

“My songwriter's night isn't until November, Momma.”

“We're planning ahead.”

I push myself forward. Lee runs his hand gently over my back. “Well, I guess y'all are. No, you can't bring fifty people. There won't be room for the other guests.”

“Well, shug, who do I tell no? The aunts and uncles, grandparents, your granddaddy's bluegrass boys? They're all just dying to see you sing in Nashville.”

Lee kisses my check and whispers, “I'll be back.”

“I already have Lee, Skyler, Blaire, Birdie, Walt, Arizona, and my one nonfamily, nonfriend fan, Mallory Clark. Plus you, Daddy, Eliza, and the grandparents.”

Momma's silence is thick. “I gotta tell Henna and the girls they can't come?”

Tough task. “Sorry, Momma.”

“Henna already made T-shirts: ‘What happens in NashVegas stays in NashVegas.'”

I laugh. “What are they planning to do, run naked down Broadway?”

“For heaven's sake, no. You know Henna; she has to have a hat or T-shirt for every occasion.”

“Momma, tell them I'm sorry, but when I sing at the GEC, they can have front-row seats.”

The sound and smell of popping popcorn fills the apartment.

“The GEC?”

“The Gaylord Entertainment Center. Big place downtown.”

“Well, I'll tell them, but they won't be happy. Robin,” she hesitates, “ they all bought Emma's new CD.”

My heart thuds. “You're kidding?”

“They want to know why Graham Young's name is on your song.”

I draw the blanket over my head. What a nightmare. “Momma, just tell them it's business.”

“All right. How are you doing with this?” Her voice is like an embrace. She and Daddy were spitting mad when I called to break the news about Graham stealing my song. But more than Daddy, or anyone else in the family, I believe Momma shoulders the load of my disappointment. She's walked a mile in my shoes, and then some.

“I'm okay. Everyone's been so great—Lee, Skyler, Birdie, Walt. But no clues as to where I can find Graham. I've asked everyone I know. He's disappeared.”

Lee yanks the blanket off my head and slips in next to me with a big bowl of popcorn.

“Well, the Lord sees and knows.”

“He does.” Momma's a good one with “the-Lord-knows” or “the-Lord's-will” Band-Aid of truth. “Listen, Lee's here and we're watching a movie. Talk to you later.”

“Good night, my songbird.”

“G-good night.” I hang up. Songbird? Momma's never used affectionate nicknames before. I don't know about the rest of the world, but Robin and Bit McAfee are experiencing their own global warming.

When the movie credits roll, Lee clicks off the TV and kisses
me with powerful, electric lips. Clearing that last bit of Janie dust from our air has turned up the heat.
Shew-wee.

“I'm really proud of you,” he says.

“Well, thank you. You're a good kisser too.” I fall against his chest.

His laugh rumbles in my ear. “I mean how you're handling this song business.”

“What choice do I have? Deal with it or run home. And I'm not running.” I sit up. “I keep telling myself that at the core of this, my song is a hit. Even Susan West thinks so.”

“I don't know how Graham stole your song. If he saw in you what I see—” Lee shakes his head. “He'd have never done it.”

“You're trying to melt my heart, aren't you?”

He kisses me. “Maybe.” A light knock echoes on my door. “You expecting company?”

“No.” I shove my hair from my eyes, thinking I need to make an appointment at Bishop's tomorrow, and skid across the floor in my stocking feet. Birdie and Walt are on the other side of the door.

“Hey, you two, come in.”

Lee calls from the kitchen, “Y'all want something to drink?”

Walt raises his hand. A thick gold ring is wrapped around his middle finger. “We're good, Lee, thanks.”

“And what are you two lovebirds up to this evening?” I fold the blanket to make room on the couch.

Walt holds Birdie's hand as she sits. I perch on the arm of the club chair. “Is everything okay?”

Birdie gushes. “We're getting married.”

“Holy cow, you're getting married.” I crush Birdie with a hug. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah, we're getting hitched,” Walt says with a raspy chuckle.

Lee comes in with two glasses of Pepsi. “What brought this on?” He stoops to kiss Birdie's cheek. “Congratulations.”

Walt gazes at Birdie when he says, “We've known each other a long time. And once you know, why wait?”

“Sounds good to me.” Lee's tone makes me go
ah-o
.

“There's more,” Birdie says. “I have—”

“May have,” Walt interrupts.

“May have cancer.”

I set my drink down and drop to my knees in front of her. “Cancer? Birdie . . .”

“Crazy cigarettes.”

“You smoked?”

“For years. I quit awhile back, but the doctor found some spots on my lungs.”

I slip my hand under hers. “When did you find out?”

Birdie squeezes my hand. “A few days ago. It's just a few odd-looking cells, but the doc wants to take a closer look.” Her blue eyes fill with tears.

Walt wraps both of his arms around her. “I don't want her going through this alone.”

Birdie laughs softly. “I refused his first proposal. I can't see putting this kind of burden on a new marriage, but he insisted.” Birdie flashes her ring finger under my nose.

“Sakes alive, Walt.” Birdie's diamond blinds me. Like the time I tried to look directly into the sun on a dare. “It's beautiful.”

She squishes up her shoulders with a sigh. “He did good, didn't he?”

Walt nudges her cheek. “I'll be hunting for your false teeth when you're ninety, pet.”

Love believes all things.

“We're not really church people, you know,” Birdie says, “but do you think your pastor, Shawn, would marry us? In a few weeks?”

Lee nods. “Ask him.”

“And, Robin, will you be my bridesmaid? I never had a daughter and—”

“Sweet Birdie!” I throw my arms around her. “I'd be honored.” Walt stands and hooks his thumbs in his waistband. His wide belt buckle holds up his blue jeans. “This calls for a toast.” He scurries down three flights of stairs for a bottle of wine. When he returns, we toast love, life, and health.

“And to friends,” Birdie says with her gaze fixed on me.

I raise my goblet. “To friends.”

When Birdie and Walt leave, Lee lures me out on the deck, into
the chilly night. He wraps me in his arms for warmth.

“Look how bright the stars are,” I say, hooking my hands around his arms. “Like they know Birdie is in love.”

“What about you?” He tightens his arms.

“What about me?”

“Are you in love?” he asks.

“Are you?” I counter, suddenly nervous.

“Is this Twenty Questions?”

“I don't know, is it?”

Lee looks down at me. “Robin, be serious for a moment.”

“I am.”

He turns me to face him. “I want to talk to your dad.”

“About what?”

“About us.”

I can't see his face very well in the dim light, but his tone tells me he's talking serious. “Y-y-you mean like, like Birdie and Walt?”

“What do you think?” His breath is warm on my hair.

“After two months?” I break away. “We haven't even said I love you yet.”

“I love you, Robin.”

Okay, there's that. “Lee,” I smooth my hand down his strong arm, “you're the most amazing man I've ever met. When I'm with you, I feel like I can buy the world with Lucky Charms and Cracker Jacks.”

He holds my face in his hands and kisses me.

This ain't helping. I flounder to express myself. Darn, I hate this. I want to move forward with this relationship but not straight to the altar. Seems as if Lee's already pulled into the station and called “All aboard.”

“I'm meeting people around Nashville, learning the business, and with the Lord's grace, beating stage fright. For the first time, I don't feel quite like an alien.”

“What are you saying?”

“I've bit off all I can chew right now. I know God is able to handle everything, but I'm only one bitty woman.” I hold my hands to my shoulders. “See, narrow shoulders.”

Lee doesn't so much as smile.

“I'm not ready for you to talk to my daddy.” There, I said it. Not in a smooth, country ballad kind of way, but I said it.

Lee's chest rises and falls. “I understand, but Robin, I do want to mar—”

“Don't say it.” I stick my fingers in my ears.
La, la, la, la
. “I don't want to hear it. I've already said no to one proposal this year.”

Sheesh, if I say no twice in one year, Skyler would flat kill me.

Lee crawls back inside. I crawl in after him. “Lee, I'm sorry. I reckon I'm just not—”

“Do you love me?” He grabs his jacket.

I wring my hands.
Do I love him?
“Lee, you are incredible. In every way. I can't believe I met a man like you so soon. You're becoming my best friend, but I'm just not ready to say things like ‘I love you' or ‘I'll marry you.'”

He jerks open the door. “I'd better go. It's late.”

“It's nine o'clock.”

“I've got an early breakfast meeting.”

“On Saturday?” I drop to the sofa. “Are you mad?”

“No, just disappointed.” He opens the door.

“Call me?”

“Sure.” He closes the door without so much as a smile or see ya later.

Ah, crud.

26

Saturday morning, Skyler calls. “Get up and come down here!”

I push my eyes open. “Come down where?” I glance at my clock. Seven a.m. Is she crazy?

“Pancake Pantry. I had a hankering for pancakes. Then we're going to my place to bake goodies for my church's youth fund-raiser.” I hear her car door slam.

“I don't bake,” I say, untangling my feet from the sheets. See how I'm not ready for marriage? I don't bake. And I'm a bed hog. All the covers are mine. Mine.

“You can stir the batter, crack eggs, measure sugar.”