A Nashville Collection (29 page)

“Isn't that baking? I may be half asleep, but I'm not stupid.”

“Fine, sing to me while I slave away.”

“Skyler, do tell, how do you get into an emergency baking situation?”

“Mrs. Gillaspy called last night desperate for more baked goods for the October Fest fund-raiser.”

“Well, since it's for October Fest . . .” I fumble my way to the bathroom unable to open my eyes. They're glued shut with dried tears.

“Great. And this afternoon, we're boot shopping. I want to go to the Boot Corral.”

“Boot shopping? My dear lawyer cousin, once again, I'm flat broke.”

“I'll buy you a pair. Merry early Christmas. You've got to see this place, Robin. Every boot imaginable, and the walls are lined with pictures of country stars. Besides, every songwriter needs a good pair of boots. Red ones.”

“We do? Says who?”

“Me. I'm in a shopping mood. You in the car yet?”

“No, but I'm in the bathroom.”

“That's a start.”

When I pull up to the red-brick Pancake Pantry, the waiting
line wraps around the block. With an awkward, “I'm looking for my cousin,” to those who think I'm cutting in line, I spot Skyler along the row of windows, waving from a table in the corner.

“This place is packed,” I say, dropping my keys on the table. “By the way, I left the house without my purse, which means no wallet, no driver's license, no money.” A waitress fills my coffee cup.

“What happened to you?” Skyler wrinkles her nose at me while motioning for the waitress to hold up. “Give us two orders of the original pancakes and two sides of bacon.”

“Lee told me he loved me last night. He wants to talk to Daddy—”

“Oh my gosh, Robin, I've got goose bumps. I'm so jealous. Look at you, a hit song, a very handsome contractor fiancé—”

I stop her verbal skip down the rose-trimmed path. “I didn't say it back. And it's Graham's hit, not mine.”

“You didn't say it back? What's wrong with you? And it is your song, just no one knows it.”

I unroll the silverware from my napkin. “We've only known each other for five months. Dated for two. I'm only twenty-five.”

“Oh my gosh, cry me a river. You've had two marriage proposals in a year. I haven't had one in twenty-six.”

“Technically, he didn't ask. He's only hinted.”

“You're scared, aren't you?” Skyler motions to the waitress for more coffee.

“Maybe. Some. Not much. Come on, marriage is a serious commitment.”

She shakes her head. “You beat all, you know?”

I don't want to talk about it anymore, so I change the subject. “How's Kip?” Skyler went on a blind date last week with a friend of Blaire's steady, Ezra.

She grins. “Good. He's called a few times.” Kip turned out to be exactly Skyler's type—a good-looking athletic physician's assistant.

“He's coming to church with me tomorrow.”

Our waitress brings breakfast, and my stomach, if not my brain, wakes up, and, for the moment, my problems disappear with a pat of butter and swirl of maple syrup.

Tuesday morning Marty Schultz shows up at Nashville Noise.

“Beat me with an ugly stick. Where've you been?” I throw my arms around her.

She looks happy. Happy for Marty. Her hair is dyed a rich brown, and her blue eyes are no longer streaked with red. Her jeans and baggy T-shirt are the same but a might neater than in the past.

“I'm moving back to Arkansas.”

“Why?”

She reaches in a Starbuck's bag and hands me a coffee. “For old time's sake,” she says with a confident smile. “The coffee, not the move.”

I walk to the reception area and perch on the sofa.

“I decided to go to college,” Marty says, sitting next to me.

I choke on my coffee. She shouldn't drop bombs on me without a shrill whistle or a “Bombs away.”

“College? Really?”

She laughs softly. “I know it's out of the blue, but I always wanted to go to college and study music, maybe teach. You gave me courage to face my fears.”

“How George Bailey of me.” I wink at my friend. “But, I have to ask, what fears?”

She fiddles with her coffee cup lid. “I barely graduated high school. By seventeen, I was already playing gigs, traveling weekends. What did I need with school? After the Delaney Brown fiasco, I took a close look at my life and decided school actually sounded fun, but I was afraid of bombing out again. If I failed school, what did I have left but cleaning toilets the rest of my life? Then I met you, fighting for your dreams, overcoming fears, and I thought, ‘Why not me?'”

I hug her again. “I'm proud of you. College is a lot of work.”

She wrinkles her nose, but her eyes are lit up. “I know. I would've been a terrible student at eighteen. But I know what I want now. Mom is paying my way, so I don't have to work unless I want to.”

“So, why'd you disappear on Marc?” I check my watch. Almost nine. “Sorry, Marty, but I need to finish up here. Marc left early to meet with a client, and he's got me scheduled for jobs all day.”

Marty wads up the paper bag. “I understand. Listen, I didn't disappear on Marc. I called in sick so I could extend my Fourth weekend and visit the college admissions office. The same day, I e-mailed him with my plan, but he never checks his e-mail. He's a phone man. I got a response from him a month later.”

“He never told me.”

“I'm sorry I didn't call you.” Marty rises, and I walk her to the front door.

“It's okay,” I say, adding with a chuckle, “it figured you needed a break from this town.” I laugh. “But I did wonder if you stole ‘Your Country Princess
.

'”

Marty gasps softly, tipping her head sideways. “Someone stole your song? I've been out of touch . . . Oh my gosh.” Then she narrows her eyes. “I would never steal someone else's song. I know what that feels like.”

“I came to the same conclusion.” I give her the sixty-second sound bite of how I discovered Emma Rice singing my song. And Graham Young's name is on it.”

She moans and grips my arms. “Don't get bitter, just get better. Write another hit song. Be more careful in the future.” She's intense, like she's willing me to not suffer her plight. We stop by the front door.

“I will. Marty, I'm going to miss you.”

She sniffles. “I already miss you. But not Marc. Not this job. Not this town. Only you. Thanks for being a light when I needed one.”

“Any time.” We hug good-bye. I hope this is not the last I see of Marty Shultz.

My last chore at Nashville Noise is to toss the garbage in the
dumpster. But Marty's surprise visit made me skip Mr. Chastain's office, so I run back to check his trash.

His light is not on. Good. I'm running behind and don't want him to catch me. Marc would have a cow. I untie the Hefty bag and reach under the desk for his trash can.

The picture I borrowed is back on the wall, safe and sound. And praise be, I never heard a word from Marc about it.

Looking back, that whole ordeal gives me the willies. “What a shocker,” I mutter as I dump Mr. Chastain's trash.

“What's a shocker?” The overhead lights flicker on.

I snap around, dropping the trash can and ramming my hand into the side of the desk.
Ow
. “M-Mr. Chastain.”

“Good morning.” He's dressed casually in khakis and a white button-down. His graying hair is still wet from the shower. He looks different than the picture on the wall. Older, wiser.

“I'll be right out of your way, sir.” I slide his trash can under the credenza.

“No, not until I hear about the shocker.” He sets his laptop case on his desk.

I fudge since I don't want to tell him about the picture. “Well . . . sir . . . ”

“Did you take my picture?” He points to the very one.

Aha, James Chastain's elves hold my feet to the fire. “Yes, sir. But I brought it back, unharmed.”

He walks over to the wall of fame, hands in his pockets. “I tried to sell this picture on eBay when Gilly Stone put out his two-CD set of golden hits.”

“You did?”

He swirls his big leather desk chair around and sits. “Didn't get one bid.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Well, okay, one. My friend Wynn bid on it for me.”

A snort escapes my nose. Can't help it. His expression is funny.

He stares at me, and I drop my gaze to my Nikes. The Hefty bag dangles from my hand. “You didn't want to sell it anyway, did you?”

He unsnaps his laptop case. “I have about fifty of those in the storage closet.”

“Still a rare find. At least this one is signed, and Casey Jones just passed away.” I walk over for a closer look, not so shocked anymore to see Bit Lukeman's face. “I saw this picture in the Hall.”

“Why'd you take it?” he asks, booting up his laptop.

I tap the glass. “That woman is my—”

My confession is interrupted by his ringing phone. He answers with a “Hullo,” then yuks it up with the person on the other end with phrases like “you devil,” and “Yeah, he hit number one.”

I feel rather silly waiting around with a garbage bag in my hand, so I tiptoe to the door.

Mr. Chastain's voice chases after me. “Don't go.” I stop short. “Grant, hold on a sec. No, let me call you back.” He drops the phone to the cradle and fishes something out of his laptop case.

“I believe this is yours.” He hands me a clear jewel case with an unmarked CD inside.

My pulse races. “I don't think so.”

“You didn't record a song in my studio with Marty Shultz?”

Oh, crap
. See, this is what daredevil actions get me. Purple spots float before my eyes. And fat, arctic-blast goose bumps shiver down my arms and legs. “I'm sorry, we were just—”

“Goofing around?”

How many little elves does he have? I lift my chin. “How did you get this?”

“A recording engineer was dozing in the booth when you snuck in. You seem adept in stealth.”

“I grew up in the hills.” He doesn't laugh or even smile. “I apologize, sir. We overstepped our place. I'd be happy to pay for—”

“Did you write the song?” His tone warns, “Don't lie to me, girl.”

Ain't no flies on James Chastain. I blurt, “Yes, sir.”

He rubs his chin. “Did you sell it to Emma Rice?”

“No, sir.”

His phone rings again. At the same time, a fancy-dressed woman knocks on his door. “James?”

“Merrillee.” He looks at his watch. “Come in.”

I hoist the Hefty bag and slip away to the dumpster.

Lee calls Monday five minutes after I arrive home. “How are
you?”

“Missing you,” I confess.

“I miss you too,” he says. “I took yesterday to think and pray.”

“I understand.” Leaning against the kitchen counter, I wrap my arm around my waist, shaking from the cold apartment, but more from anticipation.

“I'm sorry I sprung the idea of marriage on you so soon.”

I shake my head. “No, Lee, please . . . I'm the one who should be sorry. Look, I'm not ready for love and marriage talk but I don't want to lose you.”

“You won't. But how will I know you're ready?”

I sigh. “Good question.”

“Got an answer?”

I think for a moment. “I'll tell you I love you.”

27

The second Sunday in November, I'm sick. Really. My stomach
churns, my head pounds, and my toenails ache. True, all true.

Momma calls from Daddy's cell. “We're on our way. We'll see you at the Bluebird. Did you get snacks for people when we go back to your place?”

“Turn around, Momma, I'm sick.”

“For crying out loud, Robin, you are not sick. Are you in bed? Get out of bed—” Her voice trails off and Daddy's comes on.

“Robbie, we're all rooting for you.”

“But I'm sick.”

“Tell the truth—are you really?”

Drat. The old tell-the-truth trick. “No.”

“Come on, get out of bed, get cleaned up, you'll feel better. Spend some time in prayer.”

“You're gonna knock 'em dead!” Arizona and Eliza cheer from the back of Momma's van.

Daddy hangs up, and I crawl out of bed. The clock reads two-thirty, and I've successfully spent the day in bed, fretting.

Over in the corner of my tiny living room, the afternoon light shines on the polished wood of my guitar. My fingers are sore and calloused from practicing all week. I stayed up until two a.m. rehearsing each number, jotting down what I should say between songs, working up smooth transitions from one song to the next. The floor around the kitchen table is littered with all my crumpled up notes.

I stare at the pile and burrow back under the covers.

Stand on my head, naked, in Freedom's town square.

Eat warm fish guts on
Fear Factor
.

Wear baby blue eye shadow.

Three things I'd rather do than sing at the Bluebird tonight. I feel like one of Granddaddy's old scratched 78 records when the needle gets stuck. You're afraid . . . You're afraid . . . You're afraid . . .

Open-mike nights I learned to manage because the expectation is zilch. They expect you to suck. But this is a performance. The audience wants to be entertained and uplifted. I have to be smooth and charming and on key.

The Bluebird will be packed. Standing-room only. And Sunday night won't thin out like open-mike nights. I'm dead. So dead. Jesus, help me.

I sit up with a sudden thought.
Maybe, by some miracle,
Nashville's been hit with a natural disaster
. Wouldn't that be great? The Bluebird would be closed.

I throw on some clothes and run down to Birdie's.