A Nashville Collection (11 page)

“On the Rocks Bar & Grill.” Skyler points toward the row of red-brick restaurants and cafés.

“Why?” I want to know. “Drinking won't solve anything.”

Skyler opens my door. “Not drinking, goof. Karaoke.”

“Oh no, nothing doing.” Sitting back, I cross my arms.

Skyler reaches in to unbuckle me. “You just admitted you need to get out there and sing. So, let's go.”

“I didn't mean karaoke.” I shove her hand away from the seatbelt buckle.

Blaire crawls in beside me. Now she likes me; now she wants to be my friend. “This is a good way to go, Robin. A lot of singers wanting to be artists do a little karaoke. I think Mindy McCready got her start in karaoke.”

“Nothing doing. I'm not going in there.”

“Robin, how the heck do you expect to sing at The Bluebird, the Douglas Corner Café, or The French Quarter if you can't sing karaoke On the Rocks?”

I drop my forehead on Skyler's headrest. “Hadn't planned that far.”

“Time to declare war on terror.”

“But karaoke? It's so stupid.”

“Yes, and stage fright is so smart and classy.”

I stick my tongue out at her. Snooty lawyer. I slip out of the seat belt, square my shoulders, and puff out my chest. “Let's do it.”

Skyler, Blaire, and I stride toward On the Rocks like Charlie's Angels, but just as we reach the door, I swoop around, head straight back to the car, and buckle myself in.

The remaining Angels scurry after me. “Robin, come on.”

“I can't sing to a track. And look.” I point to my hat head. “I don't have my hat. Don't have my guitar for security . . . I can't.”

Skyler slams my door shut and gets behind the wheel. “Come on, Blaire.”

“Where we going?” I slink down in the seat.

“Freedom.”

I lurch forward. “Alabama?”

From Skyler's stereo, Martina sings to me that “this one's for the girls.” “Yep. Might as well take you home since you can't do what you came to Nashville to do.”

“You're kidnapping me?”

“If you can't run with the big dogs, Robin, stay on the porch. Make room for somebody else. You heard what Birdie said to her old tenant.”

“Turn around, Skyler. Take me home.”

“Freedom, here we come.” She merges on to the highway.

“No, home to Ashwood Avenue. Birdie's.”

Skyler looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Sing karaoke.”

She ain't the boss of me. I reach up and grab her by the hair.

“Ack! Robin, what are you doing?” Her car swerves against the white center line.

“Take me home.” I tug a little tighter while Blaire hovers against the passenger door, clutching her purse.

“No.” Skyler grips the wheel with both hands, watching the road down the slope of her nose.

“Do it.” I twist and yank again.

Skyler winces. “No.”

Blaire's white as cotton. “Robin, she's going to wreck. Let her go.”

“Tell her to take me home.”

Speeding down I-65, we argue. Blaire digs in her purse. “I'll give up Zoloft if you sing at karaoke.”

I let go of Skyler. “What? Are you serious?” Finally, something interesting on the bargaining table. “Can you do that?”

Skyler rubs the back of her neck. “You pulled out all my little hairs. You're so gonna pay for this.”

Blaire hesitates to answer, then nods. Once. “Yes.”

I'm bamboozled. “How?”

“A little at a time, yes. My doctor's been advising me to wean myself off—”

“And me,” Skyler interjects.

“He wants me to take a milder med for awhile.”

I slouch against the Beemer's leather seat. “I don't know . . .”

“Good grief, Robin, what's it gonna take? Do you realize what Blaire's put on the table?”

“All right.” I sigh. “I'll do it.”

Here's the inherent problems with singing karaoke, in my
humble opinion. People. Smoke-filled room. People. No rehearsal. People.

Even for porch singing, sometimes Granddaddy would rehearse us a little before the evening started.

By the time we walk into On the Rocks, I'm scareder than the devil at a revival meeting. My mind is frantic for an excuse to run. Blaire and her high-price offer. Shoot fire.

Skyler drops her arm over my shoulder. “We're going to walk through those doors to a new, braver you.”

My brain tells my lips to grin, but they refuse. Isn't it funny how God put people like Arizona and Skyler in my life for the proverbial kick in the pants?

“You know what I used to do?” Blaire says softly. “I used to pretend I was queen of the world and everyone in the room was my loyal, doting subject.”

“There you go,” Skyler says. “Think beautiful Robin McAfee.”

“Right,” I snort and finger the tangled ends of my hair.

Blaire taps her watch. “We're wasting time. If we don't get Robin signed up, she won't have time to sing. The regulars will have all the spots.”

“There are regulars?” I walk with Blaire to the door, Skyler's hand gentle on my back.

“Oh, yeah.”

On the Rocks is a wide-open place with a high, exposed beam ceiling where track lighting shoots blue and greens hues across the karaoke stage. The spacious ambiance gives me room to breathe, and I relax a little.

Blaire flashes a smile over her shoulder. “You're going to have fun, Robin. Really. And . . . sorry I was so cold before. You know—at the Frothy Monkey.”

I smile. “No problem.”

“Really, there's no excuse.”

I touch her arm. “We all have our moments. So, how do I go about picking a song?”

Blaire flashes me her beautiful smile and shows me how to pick a song, which I do, and jot it on a piece of paper. I hand it to the DJ, Mandy.

She looks at my choice. “LeAnn Rimes?”

“‘I Need You.'” I point to the paper.

“Ever sing karaoke before?”

“Nope,” I choke.

She nods. “Okay, then. When you're up, I'll walk around, calling your name. Take the mike and sing. The lyrics display on the monitors.” She waves the cordless microphone at a couple of dozen monitors around the room.

“All righty.” I spin on my heel and go back to the table. “Water,” I croak to Skyler.

She buys me a bottle and pats my shoulder as I gulp it down. “Are you going to be okay?”

I slam the water bottle on the tabletop. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. This is good for you. Another step toward your dream.”

I turn to Blaire. “Do they boo if you're bad?”

She shakes her head. “I've never seen anyone booed.”

“What if the person is good?”

“They bring down the house.”

Skyler presses her fingers into my arm. “Bring the house down, Robin.”

“Sky, I just want to make it to the stage and sing the entire song.”

Blaire winces at me. “I don't mean to second-guess you, but is a LeAnn Rimes song going to work for you? She's all diva, big voice, you know.”

I slide up onto my stool. “It works in my truck.”

“There you go,” Skyler says, fist to the table.

So we wait. I'm infused with confidence when a good singer takes the stage, struck with fear over the bad one. I try to concentrate on the table conversation. Blaire's telling a story about a photo shoot she had in the afternoon, but I keep getting lost in a jungle of anxiety.

“Think you can cowgirl up?” Skyler asks after awhile, nudging me with her shoulder.

I manage a smile and whip my hand in a circle like I'm roping a calf. “Yee-haw.”

Blaire winces as the current singer falls flat on why Ruby took her love to town. “Can't say as I blame her for leaving,” she says with a snicker.

I don't laugh. “The man is doing the best he can.”

Blaire's smile fades. “Sure he is. Sorry.”

“How do, ladies?” asks a voice under a Stetson hat.

Skyler gives him the once over before answering “Fine.”

“Waiting to sing?” he asks.

Blaire points to me. “She is.”

I give him a nod. He's about to introduce himself when DJ Mandy gears up with the mike, walking the room, stirring the crowd, calling, “Tom Jenkins, you're up next at On the Rocks karaoke.”

The Stetson bows. “That'd be me.” He swaggers to the stage like he's been on a long cattle drive.

“You think he'll be any good?” I ask the girls.

Skyler studies him for a second. “Maybe, but I bet he's a suit by day and a frustrated singer by night.”

“Definitely,” Blaire agrees.

Onstage, Tom stiffly moves the mike to his lips as the music starts. I wince and suck air through my teeth, hunching my shoulders and clasping my hands between my knees. “Keep the day job, Tom,” I whisper.

The crowd indulges him as he butchers a George Straight tune. They applaud politely when he's done. Tom strides offstage grinning like a kid who's hit his first home run. Then it dawns on me: Tom conquered
his
fear.

“Next up, we have a new singer. Robin McAfee.” I freeze as Mandy strolls my way, playing to the crowd.

Skyler gently shoves me off my stool. “Go get 'em.”

“Don't rush me.” Somehow I move forward without seeing, without thinking, without breathing. Mandy hands me the mike, and I face the crowd like a '60s robot.

I'm on Granddaddy's porch.
No problem.

My right leg quivers, and my stomach argues with the remains of my dinner. The music starts, but I don't.

Mandy stops the song. “Time to sing, darlin'.” She gives me the eye like, “Wake up, girl, you're on.” Her finger is poised over the start button. “Ready?”

I nod slightly, maybe wince, but whichever, she starts the music. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the rhythm and melody. Please Lord . . .

As I start to sing, I open my eyes to catch the lyrics as they scroll up the monitor. “Stop.” I glance at Mandy. “Please. I'm sorry.” The mike trembles in my hand.

“What now?” She cocks her head to one side.

“The song's too low. Can you take it up one key, please?” I shoot the crowd an apologetic look, but I can't gaze at them too long.

“All righty.” Mandy makes the adjustment and the music starts. I hum along with the intro to make sure I'm in the right key. When the lyrics roll again, I sing as if I'm strolling through a rose garden on a spring afternoon with the sun warming my shoulders. My voice has extra vibrato from my quivering leg. Not my favorite vocal accent, but it's working. I love the soul of this song, and let words speak from my heart.

Then, it's there. The sensation of God's pleasure. I smile, lift my free arm, and belt the chorus, letting love emote out of me instead of terror.

I need you like water, like breath, like rain.

The crowd stirs. I peek to see a few people rising to their feet, joining in as I sing the second verse. By the time I round back to the chorus, On The Rocks is rocking. Just like the night in the Hall.

When the song ends, the crowd's applause and whistles explode over me. I hand the mike back to Mandy and shove against the noise back to my table.

“Cousin, you rock.” Skyler grabs me in a country-girl hug.

Blaire squeezes my arm. “How can such a little body have such a big voice?”

I wring my hands. “Did I really do all right? I missed a few words on the last chorus.”

“Oh my gosh, you had them on their feet. How can you doubt?” Skyler grips my face with her hands.

Blaire holds up her pill bottle and twists off the lid. “Tonight, I'm throwing out a whole pill since you were such a gutsy smash.”

“Blaire, you're the bravest person I know.”

“I'm in good company,” she says in a low, sincere tone.

Mandy is standing in front of me, her face pinched into a question mark. “What's with the scared-girl thing? You're a tough act to follow.” She jerks her thumb toward the singer bumbling her way through “Breathe.”

“I'm new in town, not really comfortable singing—”

She laughs low with an easy shake of her head. “There are folks who've been coming here for years trying to do what you just did.”

“I like to sing that song.” I don't know what else to say.

She turns to leave, but pauses. “Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it. By the way, nice hair.”

10

“Morning, Birdie,” I say, standing in the doorway of her kitchen.
She's humming and buttering toast.

“Robin. Come in, come in. Sleep well?” She hands me the piece of toast.

“I did, thank you.” I bite the corner. My first breakfast in my new place, in my new town, in my new life. Best piece of toasted bread I ever had.

“Sometimes it's hard to adjust in a new town, new place. When I first came to Nashville, I couldn't sleep for a month.” Birdie drops two more pieces of bread into the toaster. “Hard to believe it's been thirty-five years. I came in nineteen seventy-one. Just turned twenty.”

I perch on the kitchen stool. “Jeeter says you had a pretty good decade from the mid-seventies to the mid-eighties.”

She keeps her eyes on the toaster. “I had a few moments in the spotlight.”

I swallow my toast. Birdie's tone is not defensive, but I feel as if I touched a tender issue. “Sorry, Birdie. It's none of my business.”

“It's not like the matter is private. Read any country music history book, and you'll find a line or two dedicated to my short career.” Birdie taps the butter knife against the kitchen island. “You want some good advice?” The soft lines of her smooth cheeks deepen.

“Sure.”

“Work hard, don't give up, keep your nose clean, and hold on to your self respect.”

“You speaking from experience?”