Small Town Girl (34 page)

Kenny had slumped down in his seat and managed to get one long leg hitched over the other, his knee on the window ledge. He rolled his head to look at her. "Do what trick?"

"Get you off my mind."

He replied, "I'm pleased to know I've been there."

They reached Current River Cove and the car bounced as it entered the pitted gravel parking lot. She pulled up before the door and the entry lights from the building shone into the car.

"Aren't you coming in?" he asked.

"I don't think so. I think it's best if I go straight back. If anybody asks, just tell them I thought I should stay home with Momma."

Their gazes lingered, but both were determined to keep this light.

"Come to church tomorrow and sing," he encouraged.

"It's better if I don't."

He studied her a moment before deciding she was right. All they'd want to do was spend the day together afterward. "All right, then. When are you going back to Nashville?"

"Tuesday."

"Will I see you again?"

"I'm sure we'll run into each other in the alley."

"Yes, we always seem to, don't we? Well…" Some wedding guests came out of the hall, laughing, heading right past them en route to the parking lot.

"I'd better be going," Tess said.

A light kiss seemed in order, but the wedding guests were close enough to see into the car, so they desisted. Their pact continued: neither of them was going to get maudlin or clinging. They were going to take away some provocative memories and no regrets. They were going to part smiling.

"Well, it's been fun," he said, opening his car door. "See ya, Tess."

"Yeah… see ya, Kenny."

He got out, slammed the door and she watched him walk toward the building. When he'd opened the hall door, he stopped for a moment and looked back at her. His smile was gone. She could hear the music from the band and see the amber light behind him, then the door closed and he was gone. Back to Faith.

On Sunday Tess avoided Kenny by attending the earlier church service once again. In the afternoon she and Mary went to Renee's house, where the bride and groom opened their wedding gifts. They ended up staying for supper and got home late.

On Monday morning shortly after ten o'clock, Tess's business manager, Dane Tully, called.

"Tess, where have you been? I've been trying to call you all weekend."

"My niece got married and I was at the wedding. What's wrong?"

"Papa John died. His funeral is tomorrow."

"Oh, no…" Tess sank against the kitchen cabinet, fingers to her lips. Papa John Walpole was a sour-faced, sweet-hearted, leather-skinned old promoter who'd run a little dive called the Mudflats for over thirty years. It was said that in the last twenty, every successful recording artist coming out of Nashville played the Mudflats Thursday night picking parties at one time or another on his way to signing with a major label. If it weren't for Papa John, Tess would not have met Jack Greaves, or Dane himself, or the folks who'd signed her on at MCA. She'd walked into the
Mudflats one hot July day in 1976, a brash know-it-all from the show-me state who looked Papa John straight in the eye and said, "I've got nothin' to pick but give me five minutes and the key of G and you don't have to show me anything.
I'll
show
you
!" Eighteen years and thirteen platinum albums later, she had
shown him
too many times to count, going back and playing the Mudflats whenever she had a night to spare, always gratis, always unadvertised.

She was stabbing at tears as she asked, "What happened?"'

"A guy with a nylon over his face came in the back door when Papa John was counting the day's take, pointed a gun at his head and demanded the money. Papa John told him to go piss up a rope."

Through her sniffles, Tess let out a cough of laughter. "Sounds just like him. I'd expect him to go out talking back. Did they catch the guy?"

"Damn right. A waitress was still out front and heard everything. She was dialing nine-one-one before the gun went off, and a prowl car happened to be two blocks away."

"Oh, my God, Dane, I can't believe he's dead."

"Neither can anybody in Nashville. He's being cremated, but there's a memorial service tomorrow at eleven a.m. and everybody he ever helped is singing at it. It'll be the biggest choir ever assembled in this town. Can you be here?"

"I've got to be."

"Your mother will be okay?"

"Sure. I've got sisters here. It'll take me a couple hours to make some phone calls and get packed, but I'll be rolling by noon today. The truth is, Dane, I'm more than ready to get out of here. I'll see you tomorrow."

She called Renee, who said, "Oh, Tess, I'm so sorry. Yes, go ahead and take off. If I'm not there by the time you leave, I'll be there shortly after. And don't worry about Momma. There are plenty of us to watch out for her and drive her wherever she needs to go."

Mary was dismayed. She'd planned on having Tess for one more day, and grew twittery at her sudden announcement of departure. Though she couldn't follow her up the stairs, she followed her to the foot of them and called up while Tess was packing, "Should I fix you a sandwich to take along? Will you be all right driving alone? You're awfully upset, Tess."

When Tess came downstairs for the last time with her duffel and her oversized gray leather bag, Mary was waiting at the bottom, looking gloomy, wearing a pilled polyester knit slacks outfit that was about the same age as Papa John had been. The staples had been removed from her incision a week ago and she had graduated from the crutches to canes, which gave her much more mobility. But she seemed rooted with sadness as Tess hugged her good-bye.

"Now, you call the girls whenever you need anything. If they can't come, one of the kids will. Promise?"

"I'm no baby. It's not me I'm worried about, it's you, driving all that way crying your eyes out."

"I'm not crying my eyes out. I'll be fine."

"You sure? I don't see why you don't wait till morning. You could get an early start and be there by ten."

"Momma, it's time I go."

"Well… yes… I suppose it is. I just thought… one more day I could have my little girl here."

There had been some changes since she'd been home, but this remained constant: Mary would always call Tess her little girl.

"Gotta go, Momma," she whispered, and pulled back. Mary stumped along behind Tess to the kitchen, and took a sandwich bag off the counter. "Here. It's just pressed ham and cheese, but it might taste good on the road."

Pressed ham and cheese. Couple hundred calories, Tess thought wistfully, recognizing that what she was taking along was a love sandwich, not a ham and cheese.

"Thanks, Momma, I'm sure it will. Well… gotta hit the road." There were tears in both women's eyes. "Listen, you don't need to come outside."

"Of course I do."

"But, Momma…"

Mary had her way, following Tess down the crowded step to the back entry, then outside onto the concrete stoop. There she stood, balancing on two aluminum canes and resting her backside against the thick handrail while Tess loaded her car, put on her sunglasses, got in and started the engine. She looked over her left shoulder. The noon sun turned Mary's hair to the color of cooked squash. Her ancient slacks had shrunk and showed her ankles, still bound in support stockings. The house was in need of painting and the lawn needed mowing. But the cabbages in the garden had doubled in size.

Tess called through her open window, "Don't you go bein' sad now, Momma, you hear?"

Mary had hung one of her canes on the handrail to wipe her eyes with a tissue. "Oh, go on with you," she said, flapping a hand, then wiping her other eye.

"Love you. Momma!"

"Don't be gone so long this time!"

"I won't."

Tess hit the gas pedal twice—a real smart aleck trying to lighten the mood. The muffler rapped like strafing and Mary pressed the tissue to her quivering chin. Tess pushed a tape into the deck, cranked up the volume until it nearly broke her own eardrums, backed into the alley, then roared away with her own recorded voice belting out a diminishing farewell for the little squash-haired lady on the high back step.

It was roughly one mile from her mother's house to downtown. Tess cried all the way, partly for the loving and lonely mother she'd left behind, partly for Papa John, and partly for herself because she was leaving Kenny Kronek. She should not stop at his office; what purpose would it serve? But the thought of driving away without bidding him good-bye caused an actual ache in her breast. It felt as if some force greater than she controlled her will as she pulled up in front of Kenny's office, raised her sunglasses, checked her eves in the mirror and found she'd cried off all her mascara. Hiding behind her shades once more, she got out and stood for a moment studying his building. It had a gray wooden facade with the door in the center and, on either side, a white window box filled with red geraniums. The geraniums looked like Faith's work.

She nudged the legs of her jeans down off her calves and headed for the plate-glass door that said Kenneth Kronek, CPA. Her sensible self half hoped he'd be gone to lunch, but her sentimental self yearned for a personal goodbye.

She stepped inside and there he was, working at a desk beyond an open doorway of a private office that stretched across the back half of the narrow building. Out front a small reception counter had been abandoned by his secretary, leaving him alone in the place.

He looked up and his fingers stalled above the buttons of a calculator. She took her glasses off slowly and stared back at him while time froze and neither of them flickered a muscle. Finally he rolled his chair back and rose, impaling her with his eyes as he walked through the doorway and stopped behind his secretary's empty chair. He was dressed in gray trousers, a white shirt with a pen in his pocket and a multicolored tie with an equestrian motif. His sleeves were rolled up several inches, but the tie was knotted tightly and fell straight down his flat front. She was dressed as she'd been the day she rolled into town—in cowboy boots, jeans and the Southern Smoke T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," he answered, and she could tell from the thick-throated syllable that her appearance had generated the same tumult within him that was going on within her. "What's wrong?"

"I have to go back to Nashville today. Something came up very suddenly."

"You've been crying."

She pushed the glasses back on. The lenses grayed his face and clothing.

"A little, yes… but it's… I'm okay." She rubbed the underside of her nose with the back of her hand.

"Come into my office."

"No." She started rummaging in her purse, seeking a distraction from the awful stranglehold he seemed to have on her heart. "I just wanted you to know I was leaving so you can tell Casey. And I wanted to give you my card so that—"

He came around the desk and gripped her arm. "Come into my office, Tess."

"Kenny, I didn't come here to—"

"My secretary's gone to lunch, but she could come back any minute."

He hauled her into his private domain, shut the door and they stood behind it, facing each other, mixed up and frenzied inside. He dropped her arm the minute the door closed, and asked, "What happened?"