Fifteen Minutes: A Novel (3 page)

So I hated my life, because the work that is done under the sun was grievous to me. All of it is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.

Her newest album was number one on iTunes, and she’d been asked back to
Fifteen Minutes.
This time as a judge. She had ten million Twitter followers and daily requests for movie and book deals. But here, in the warmth and quiet of the cemetery, she could only agree with King Solomon. Where were the real winners? Life was meaningless . . . a chasing after the wind.

All of it.

She opened her journal and began to write. The lyrics came easily, pouring from the gaping holes in her heart. It would be a hit, she was sure. Even that was meaningless. Only one thing kept Chandra going, kept her engaged in the daily trap of celebrity and fame, through concerts and autograph seekers and handlers and bodyguards. It wasn’t her new role as judge on
Fifteen Minutes
or the countless hopefuls heading out to audition this week.

It was the twenty finalists.

The ones whose lives were about to change forever. The unsuspecting
contestants who would never be the same, who could never go back to life the way it had been. Just maybe among them was a singer like she used to be, someone with faith and family and a quiet, happy life.

If she could warn just one about the false illusion and prison of fame, she would do it. In the process she might find something she’d lost four years ago with the death of her parents. The one thing celebrity could never give her. The one thing worth chasing.

Meaning.

Z
ack Dylan held a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand and his Bible in the other. He stood on the wraparound wooden porch of his parents’ farmhouse and watched a pair of Arabian horses run through the Kentucky bluegrass. The hundred-acre horse farm had been in the family for six generations.

He breathed deep the sweet July air and set his things down on the old wooden table. Four metal-back chairs made up the seating. Zack took the one with a view of the horses. This had been his routine lately. Taking his coffee out here and reading his Bible. He loved Jesus more than his next breath. He could feel Him close as skin. But these days he needed all the wisdom he could get. His girlfriend, Reese Weatherly, would be here in half an hour.

Their last chance to hang out before he left for Atlanta.

The Arabians stopped as if they could sense something
changing, something big about to happen. Then like the wind they took off again, flying through the grass, a song in motion. Zack leaned his forearms on the old table and watched them run. His great-great-grandfather had raised thoroughbreds and in 1934 the Dylans’ horse farm had produced the winner of the Kentucky Derby. A sketch of the champion with a bouquet of roses formed the farm’s logo.

Dylan Champion Horse Farm.

A farm doomed to foreclosure if something didn’t change.

Zack let the history hit him again. Sometime in the 1950s the family stopped raising costly thoroughbreds and switched to Arabians. Now dressage riders boarded their horses here and rented time in one of the three arenas. Faith, family, and Southern horse farming. Danville, Kentucky, born and bred. The problem wasn’t the business. It was the tornado that had come through and damaged the barns and stables in January.

The damage didn’t touch the house, but the insurance didn’t cover the barns and stables. Liability, yes. Storm damage, no. The operation was too tight to justify that sort of insurance. Especially when six years ago a different tornado had done similar damage. Back then the family’s insurance had been comprehensive. After the claim, covering the outbuildings against storms wasn’t possible.

From the moment the storm passed, Zack and Duke, his fifteen-year-old brother, had worked alongside their dad to fix the damage. They needed additional lumber to replace the roofs on the outbuildings. Tens of thousands of dollars in supplies. Without that, the buildings had stayed in disrepair and most people had moved their horses to other facilities. The Dylans spent more money than they made and the tension around the kitchen table grew every day.

On top of that Zack’s sister, AJ, had been sick. She had Down syndrome and juvenile arthritis, an especially severe kind. A host of other complications had left doctors convinced she wouldn’t live another ten years.

Zack exhaled, feeling the weight of his family’s troubles. Regardless of the broken buildings and dwindling bank accounts, this was his family’s horse farm. Sure Zack had other dreams, songwriting, even singing. Those were tangents, really. Hobbies. More than anything he wanted to see the farm up and running, wanted to bring in new Arabians and even Derby contenders. Put the Dylan Champion Horse Farm on the map once more. Horse farming was supposed to be his and Duke’s legacy. The fabric of their past, the lure of their future.

A creaking sound made him look over his shoulder. The door opened and Grandpa Dan stepped out, most of his weight on his black cane. “Zack.”

“Sir.” He pushed his chair back and stood.

His grandpa’s steps were slow, Parkinson’s disease stealing a little more of his freedom every week. A smile lifted his weathered face. “Beautiful morning.”

“Like a painting.” Zack waited.

The porch boards protested with each step. His grandpa reached him and put a shaky hand on his shoulder. The old man had lived in the guest house out by the largest arena before the tornado hit. Now he stayed in the guest room on the main floor. He spent most of his time here, on the porch overlooking the farm, staring out at images from decades gone by.

The old man struggled to his seat, exhaled slowly and leveled his gaze at Zack. “You’re leaving. Is that what I hear?”

“I am. Yes, sir.” Zack leaned closer, took his grandfather’s black cane and rested it against the porch railing. He sat back
down. Neither of them said anything for a while, the morning breeze warm and easy between them.

Zack broke the silence first. “How are you?”

“Wonderful. Never better.” The old man’s eyes looked deep and full. “Good Lord gave me another day. Got nothing to complain about.” His look grew serious. “AJ’s coughing more. I’m worried about her.”

“Me, too.” Zack studied his grandfather. Stoic, strong. A throwback from another era. Complaining wasn’t an option. He could be drawing his last breath and he’d be more concerned with those around him.

“I hate when she’s sick. She can’t get on a horse coughing like that.”

Zack patted the man’s leathery hand. “She needs a different doctor, someone from Louisville.”

“Yes.” The old man eyed him, sizing him up for a long moment. “You have some time?”

“Yes, sir.” Zack had expected this. Dreaded it.

His grandfather looked deep into his eyes, right through him. “The audition.
Fifteen Minutes
.”

“Yes?”

“You know how I feel about it.”

“I do. Daddy told me.” Zack took a swig of coffee. His father’s words rang in his heart constantly this past week.
I believe in you, son. No harm in trying out. But you know your grandfather. Dylan men don’t chase fame . . . they tend the farm and keep up tradition. They get a second job and buy the wood and fix the buildings. They find a way.

Zack forced his dad’s words from his mind. He respected his father, but still he was going to Atlanta. He couldn’t be afraid of success. The idea was ridiculous. He sipped his drink more slowly.

His grandfather gazed back at the front door, his eyes a steely reflection of some yesteryear. Gradually he found Zack again. “Why are you going?”

“What if I’m supposed to go?” Zack felt his heartbeat quicken. He set down his coffee and leaned back in the chair. His words came measured, unrushed. “Maybe God could use me better on a stage somewhere.” He tried to smile. “I could pay off the farm. Daddy wouldn’t have to work so hard.” Zack paused, feeling the weight of the situation. His father had looked older lately, constantly worried. He thought of something else. “We could get better doctors for AJ. Duke could go to college like he wants to.”

“A lot of good men get lost on a stage.”

“Not me.” Zack folded his hands on the table and studied his grandfather’s eyes. “You know me, Grandpa. If I make it . . . I won’t get lost. Not ever. God loves me too much for that.” Nothing stood more certain in Zack’s mind. He watched the Arabians flying across the Kentucky grass. Why was his grandpa so worried? He would go with God’s blessing, sing for His glory, and one audition to the next he would walk only through the doors that the Lord Himself opened. If singing on
Fifteen Minutes
got in the way of him and God, he’d pray to be sent home.

It was that simple.

His grandpa watched him. “You’re a Dylan, and you’re a good boy.” The old man searched his eyes, processing. “But if they keep you, it’ll change things, Zack. Fame always does.” He hesitated, his tone kind. “God-fearing men . . . we live a quiet life.”

Zack didn’t argue. He respected his grandfather’s opinion but nothing would change his mind. He had prayed for God’s will and he was going to Atlanta. Besides, was he supposed to go his whole life untested? What good was his faith if it couldn’t see him through whatever lay ahead?

“What troubles me”—the old man drew a shaky breath, and for the first time a flicker of fear showed in the lines on his forehead—“is your motive, son. What do you hope to gain?” He waved his hand around. “Yes, you want to pay off the farm. Rescue your tired father. I admire that, Zack, I do.” He let the moment breathe. “When I was your age I worked two jobs. Three, even. You could do that, son. Why the show?”

“I need an answer.” Zack didn’t blink, didn’t waver. He breathed deep, the certainty of a lifetime filling his heart. “God gave me my voice, Grandpa. I have to at least try.”

“You sing at church.” Sincerity softened his eyes. “With the teens. They love you.”

“Yes.” Zack stared out at the far reaches of the field, at the Arabians standing alert now in a tight herd. “It’s just . . .” He turned to the old man. “What if I could shine brighter for God on a bigger stage? In front of the whole world?” A growing passion filled his tone. “Country music, Grandpa. That’s as big as it gets. People will
see
my faith and they’ll want Jesus. They will.”

His grandfather stayed quiet, his eyes never leaving Zack’s. “God doesn’t measure big the way people measure big. Jesus had just twelve followers.” He blinked a few times. “Fame is a demanding mistress.”

Zack hesitated out of respect. Most people he knew were excited for him, wishing him well. But his family hadn’t gotten behind him. He swallowed his frustration. “I’m twenty-three. I’ve waited a long time to try this.”

“Just remember the Derby days.” His grandpa’s eyes narrowed, more serious. “Some people never find their way back home.”

Zack had heard the story often. One of his great-grandfather’s friends had owned Kentucky Derby winners also. Only the guy
had gotten caught up in a party crowd from New Jersey and lost his life to a heroin addiction. It was the only brush with fame Zack’s grandpa knew about and it hadn’t ended well. Which explained his warning. But that didn’t apply to Zack. He patted his grandpa’s hand. “You’re assuming I’ll make it.” A slow, nervous laugh slipped through his lips. “A hundred thousand people will try out for the show.” He paused. “I could be home by Monday. If so, I’ll get another job. I promise.”

His grandpa studied Zack and a certain knowing filled his expression. “You really believe that?”

Zack thought about the hours he’d prayed, the conversations he’d had with Reese and his parents. The people who had heard the EP he made last year and told him he should get a manager or move to Nashville. He was the next Keith Urban, everyone said so. Year after year he had resisted the desire to audition. Now he could almost hear the clock ticking, almost feel his chances slipping away. Here when his family was facing financial ruin, it was as if God Himself were telling him to go for it.

His grandpa was waiting. “You believe you’ll be home by Monday.”

Zack didn’t think he’d win. But he had a chance. He had to believe that. He shook his head. “No, sir. I guess I don’t really believe that.”

“Me either.” The man angled his head slightly. He took his time with the next part. “You’re the best country singer I ever heard.”

Zack felt the compliment to the depths of his heart. “Thank you.” He took another drink of coffee and felt himself relax. His grandpa wasn’t here to talk him out of leaving. “What you said . . . it means a lot.”

“It’s true.” Concern darkened his eyes. “That’s why we’re
talking. The family needs you here, son. You make it on that stage and . . .” He looked out across the farm. The Arabians were running again, the sun warming the bluegrass. “You could lose all this.”

Reese’s car appeared on the horizon. Zack weighed his words. “I have to try. It might be the answer for all of us. God’s plan.”

Together they watched her pull in to the long winding drive and head slowly for the house. “Remember this, son.” Grandpa stared at Zack, like he was willing him to understand. “If it gets crazy, come home. While you still can.”