A Nashville Collection (32 page)

He snatches me up for a hearty kiss. “You're going to be the death of me.”

“Lee, I'm sorry. You picked a weird girl to love.”

“I know. But when a guy falls in love . . .”

I kiss him with all the passion my heart contains.

Wednesday afternoon the following week, Jim calls. “Robin,”
he says in a chairman-of-the-board sort of voice.

“Jim,” I say in my cleaning-woman voice.

Since our Bluebird Café heart-to-heart, I'm at peace with him. I figure I have the best of both worlds. A Father in heaven who loves me without condition, an earthly Daddy who thinks the stars get their light from my eyes, and this new friend-father who told me during Birdie's reception that I'm one of the most promising songwriters he's heard in a decade.

No lie.

“I'm having a meeting with . . .” He pauses. “Graham Young.”

My heart drums against my ribs. “You're kidding. He's the one who—”

“I know.”

“How'd you find him?”

“Arrogance always uncovers itself. I put the word out I was looking for him. Next thing you know, his publisher is calling.”

“Do you think his publisher knows?”

“No. It's a new company, LightLyric, and though the owner's been around the Row for awhile, he's not as scrupulous as he could be.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Care to join me?”

“I'd love to.”

“Come to my office around five after eleven. Follow my lead.”

“What's the plan?” I ask, loving the cloak-and-dagger approach. Jim is a crafty guy. Go figure.

“Get your song back.”

A feathery feeling tickles my insides all the way down to my heels. “See you tomorrow.”

The cleaning job I have on Thursday morning is at a tech
company at One Lakeview Place. But the TechCom gang must have thrown a party or something, because the place is trashed. Cake icing is smeared on every door handle.

I call Marc. “This is going to take longer than two hours.”

“Do the best you can. I'll get Laura to cover the Pagadigm Group.”

When the staff staggers in, I'm still cleaning. Every once in a while, I hear, “Oh, gag!” and I know it's an office I haven't cleaned yet.

At ten fifteen, I ring Marc. “I'm still at TechCom, but I have to leave for an eleven o'clock meeting. I've cleaned 80 percent of the place. Bathrooms and lunch room are left.”

“You can't leave.”

“Marc, I've been here for over four hours. I'm sorry, but I have a super-duper, cherry-on-top important meeting.” I crinkle my nose when I reach for the trash in the senior vice president's office. I've smelled sweeter pig pens.

“With who?” he demands.

“It's personal.” I cradle the phone over my shoulder and wrinkle my nose while the contents of the trash slips into my Hefty bag.

“Finish the job. If you leave, you're fired.”

“What? You can't fire me. I'm you're best employee and one of the few you have left.” You wanna play chicken with me, Marc?

“Robin, I'm serious.”

“Then do it. Fire me.” Heading toward each other at a hundred miles per hour, neither I nor Marc Lewis flinch.

“Robin . . .”

“Marc . . .”

“How important is it?”

“Very.”

He hesitates. “No, finish the job. Arnold Hancock is a big client. He'll bill
me
if you leave.”

“Marc, I'm going to this meeting, but I promise I'll come back and finish.”

“Then I guess you're fired.”

Ooo, good for him, he didn't flinch. “Okay. I'll pick up my check tomorrow.”

Ooo, good for me, I didn't flinch.

At precisely four minutes after eleven, I knock lightly on Jim's door.

“Come in,” he beckons.

I shove the slightly ajar door the rest of the way open. Jim is propped against his desk, his legs stretched in front of him. He's laughing and talking, using his muckity-muck voice and words like “drive-time song” and “multialbum deal.”

“Hi,” I say a little too girly. I'm not sure of my role here yet.

Jim waves for me to come in. “Robin, welcome. Glad you could make it.”

First, I see Frank Gruey then the back of Graham's head. I know it well. He's hiding under his hat and the long leather duster. He stiffens when Jim says my name.

“Frank Gruey, Graham Young, I'd like you to meet a really good friend of mine, Robin McAfee.” Jim motions for me to come on in.

Graham jerks forward but doesn't get up or look around. He flips up the duster's collar and tugs his hat lower.

Shaking, I walk across the room.

Frank shakes my hand. “Hello, nice to meet you.”

“Again. We've met. Several times.”

Jim walks around his desk to his chair. “Robin's a new songwriter in town, an excellent new songwriter. Ever seen her around, Graham?”

Graham rises slowly and turns to me with his chest puffed out. “Good to see you, Robin.”

All right. Forget the sting, forget Jim's plan. “You stole my song.” I ball my fist and pow! Right on his big square chin.

Graham topples over Frank's chair, thudding to the floor like a sack of dirt.

“You stole my song, you lying, yellow-bellied river rat.”

Frank rushes to Graham's aid, shoving me aside. “Jim, what is going on? Who is this crazy girl?”

Jim shakes his head. “I hate to tell you, Frank, but your boy stole her song.”

“What? That's impossible. I checked it out.”

I face the stupid Frank Gruey with my hands on my hips. “Well, get better sources.”

Graham gets up, rubbing his jaw. “It's my song, Robin. Tell the truth.”

Oh my stars. He's crazy. Plumb crazy.

“We have the original work tape.” Frank rages. Apparently he wasn't paying attention the night I sang it at the Bluebird.

Jim drops a CD into a player behind his desk. “This was recorded in my studio around June twenty-ninth.”

Graham scoffs. “Why would I steal from her? I'm the published songwriter.”

Jim presses a button. My voice billows from his stereo. Graham snorts and steams like a mad bull. “Frank, you've had my work tape since May.”

“May?” I kick him in the shin. “You stole my song in May?”

Graham stares me down. “I don't have to stand here and take this.” He kicks the chairs and strides out of the office.

Why that arrogant son of a gun. I bolt after him.

As he pushes through the Nashville Noise doors, I dive for the edge of his duster. He trips and hits the ground face-first.

“You stole my song.” I grit my teeth and mash his face in the grass and dirt. “And you lied to me the day I saw you at NSAI.”

“Get off.”

“No wonder you didn't return my calls.”

“What calls?”

I lean my elbow on the base of his neck. “The hundred I've made since Susan West told me you wrote ‘I Wanna Be
.
' Why'd you do it? How'd you get a work tape?”

“Get off.” Six-foot Graham doesn't have to work hard to knock me off his back. Once he catches his wind, he pushes off the ground with a wild roar.

“Get off, you monkey.”

I clasp my hands against his Adam's apple. “I trusted you. I took you home to Freedom. You kissed me!”

He gags as he tries to wrench free. “Get off me.” A couple on the sidewalk stops to gawk.

I press harder against his throat. “Why? Tell me why? I thought we were friends.”

He flails around, trying to get me off, refusing to answer. Then it hits me. This is ridiculous. I'm ridiculous. If the man under the hat had an ounce of character, he wouldn't have stolen my song in the first place. He's not going to tell me
why
or
how
. And since I'm not going to choke him to death, I don't have any other recourse except to ride around on his back all day hoping he'll confess. But he won't.

I let go.

Graham stumbles forward, coughing, rubbing his throat. “I can't believe you. Accusing me like that in front of Mr. Chastain. You may have ruined my chance with him.”

I swat the dirt and grass from my jeans. “No,” I shake my head with sadness. “You did it all by yourself.” I turn to go.

“Robin.”

“What?” I catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Regret? Sorrow? His slumped demeanor zaps my heart and makes my eyes water.

“I—” He hesitates, then drops his gaze and walks off.

30

The receptionist busies herself with sharpening pencils when I
go back inside. Jim is reading Frank the riot act.

“. . . make it right.”

“I wouldn't pull this kind of stunt on purpose. He brought me the song months ago. Emma loved it, we checked it out . . . He claimed he wrote it. He's brilliant, you know. Photographic memory.”

“Brilliant? He's a thief. Get him to sign at least half of the rights over to Robin.”

Frank sighs. His first hard lesson in the business, and it's a doozey. “I'll do what I can. But like it or not, Graham Young and LightLyrics own the song. It's Robin's word against ours.”

Jim gives him a stern look. “Do what you can.”

Frank leaves, and Jim closes the door behind him. “Are you all right?” he asks me.

I bite my lip and stare thoughtfully at my hands. “I'm sorry for Graham.” I sink down into one of the chairs, feeling weak.

“He's finished in this town, you know.” He sits next to me.

“That's why I'm sad. He's better than this.”

Jim touches my hand. “You sound like my mother.”

I look at him. “How so?”

“She's tenderhearted, but spunky. She would have done exactly what you did today. Socked him right on the chin, then pined over his plight.”

“I sang at the Bluebird for the first time because of him.” My stomach feels like I swallowed a rock.

“We'll see if Frank can't get you part ownership of the song.”

I slide down in the chair. “I don't want half the song. I'm sick of this whole mess. And I guess, technically, he did rework the chorus, and that's the best part of the song.”

Jim perches on the edge of his desk. “Songs get reworked all the time. It doesn't take away from the fact it's your song. This is a huge hit for Emma, Robin. It'll be on her greatest hits album coming out next year. You're looking at a couple hundred grand. But, if you don't need half of that, then I'll tell Frank to forget it.”

I jerk forward. “A couple hundred thousand dollars?”

“At least.” A smile tips his lips.

“Well, I did get fired today.”

He frowns. “Marc fired you?”

“Yeah, but technically I walked out on a job.”

He laughs and stands. “Come on, I'll buy you lunch. Maybe we can find something for you to do here at Nashville Noise.”

“Well, I don't want nepotism or anything. I'd like to earn my way.”

“Nepotism?” Jim holds the door open for me. “What nepotism? I need someone to clean the toilets and empty the trash.”

“Ah, well, then I'm your girl.”

On December twenty-third, Lee's F350 flies across the Freedom
County line. I wave at the
Let Freedom Ring
sign. Home for the holidays.

The past month has been fantabulous. Is that a word? It is now. Jim hired me to work in the Nashville Noise office, so I'm learning the business side of Music Row. I do a lot of flunky work, but my days of inhaling Clorox are over.

Marc begged me to come back to work for him. I refused, but he was a good boss, and I reminded Jim about his promise to look at Marc's songs. They have a meeting set for early in the New Year.

Despite what he did to Momma and me, Jim Chastain is a kind, good man. He's not my daddy, but I respect the fact that he owned up to his mistakes and is trying to make it right.

Lee slams on the brakes to do a little rubbernecking. “Is that snow?”

“Fake snow. Thank you, Henna Bliss.”

“What's a Henna Bliss?”

“Friend of Momma's. Town busybody and decorator.”

“Babe, how did they get all this fake snow here?” He strokes my fingers absently with his thumb. Makes my brain buzz.

“Big trucks. Eighteen wheelers.”

He laughs. “This is amazing.”

I twist his class ring around his finger. “Hey,” I blurt. “Can I wear this?”

He lifts his hand. “My ring? Why, you want to go steady?”

I make an “aw” face. “I've never gone steady before.” I yank that ring off his finger.

“Robin, forget going steady. Let's get engaged.”

“Let's go steady.” With my foot, I unlatch the glove box. I thought I saw some duct tape in here . . . Yep. I dig my pocket knife from my purse and slice a ribbon of tape to wrap around the ring.

“Perfect.” I wiggle my fingers in his face.

He guffaws. “There's more tape than ring.” Then he slams on the brakes again. “What in the world?”

I look where he's pointing. “It's the candy-cane field.”

In the open lot between the drugstore and the library, giant red-and-white candy canes dance in the breeze above a layer of fake snow.

“This is incredible. Where do you buy this stuff?”

“Phil Beautner knows someone who knows someone. Fake snow is actually a line item in the county budget.”

A minute later, Lee almost wrecks when we pass Santa's Toy Shop. “This I gotta see.”

Outside, he tromps through plastic flakes to see the craftsmanship of the Toy Shop. “Unbelievable.” He turns a circle. “All of Main Street is the North Pole.”

“Yep.” I tip my head and squint in the sunlight. “I told you Christmas ain't Christmas until you've been to Freedom, Alabama.”

“What about the Nativity? Don't you tell me Freedom's gone PC.”