A Nashville Collection (4 page)

Ricky unlatches the tailgate and motions for me to come sit. “October? It's not too hot, and don't you dare say it's too cold.”

“Well, I wasn't, but now that you mention it . . .” With a sigh, I peer into his eyes. “I can't, Ricky.”

“What do you mean you can't?” He leans forward, propping his broad hands on his thighs.

I stare up at the house. The tall windows watch me with pale yellow eyes. “I'm not ready.” I try to look him in the eye again, but when a flicker of anger, or maybe hurt, darkens his expression, I glance back to the windows.

“Oh, I think you are ready.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Remember last Saturday night, down by the river?”

I knock him away with my elbow. “Hush. You got me all worked up, kissing me and saying sweet things.”

His warm lips brush my neck, and he mutters something like, “Um-hum.”

I squirm free and hop off the tailgate, certain Ricky is gearing up for a repeat of last Saturday night. “You're not wearing me down this time.”

He rests his elbows on his knees. “Robin, you're twenty-five. Isn't it about time a healthy, beautiful girl like you settles down? Besides, you hate your job; you said it ain't the person you want to be. Marry me and you can quit.”

Settle down? I haven't settled up yet. “Quit and do what?” I slap at his leg. “Hang around the house all day waiting for you to show up? Nothing doing. What redneck rule says a girl has to be married by twenty-five or twenty-six? Marie Blackwell is just now getting married, and she's thirty-five.”

“Marie Blackwell? That's who you're aiming to be like?”

For a moment, I picture the lean and mean Marie, who's scared off three fiancés and four dogs. I get Ricky's point.

“Okay, forget Marie Blackwell. But, Ricky, I—” This is hard. How can I express my feelings in a way he understands? “When I was about ten or eleven I remember thinking I want to do something with my life. Something important.”

“Marrying me is doing something with your life.” His frustration sharpens each word. “Something important.”

I jam my hands in the front pockets of my jeans and study the ground. “I'm not saying it's not, but I don't want to get married yet.” I look at his face. “I haven't figured out God's purpose for me yet. I can't be Mrs. Ricky Holden or Mrs. Anybody until I discover who He made me to be. Can you understand?”

The next seconds last for an eternity. Then he utters, “Guess so,” pouting like a benched Little Leaguer. Without another word, he slides off the tailgate and slams it shut.

“Where're you going?” I scoot behind him as he gets into his truck.

“I got something to do.” He revs the engine and shifts into reverse.

“Like what?”

“Ain't your concern now, is it?”

“Hey, you were the one who said I should do something about my life if I'm not happy.”

“I didn't mean dump me.”

“Dump you? Rick, I never said ‘dump.' I said I didn't want to—”

He guns out of the driveway, spraying dust over me, and careens off into the night.

With my old Taylor in hand, I make my way up the attic steps
and out to the summer porch. Though the night air is cool, the porch is still warm from the southern sun. It feels good. Carefully, I prop my guitar against the screened wall and fumble in the moon's glow for the old lawn chairs.

The conversation with Ricky echoes across my mind, and my stomach feels like I swallowed a rock. What a terrible way to end the evening. But at the same time, I'm glad we slew that dragon. The marriage question has always lurked beneath the surface. Sooner or later, it had to rear its ugly head.

Ah, one of Daddy's old chairs. Rain has rusted the joints, so I wrangle it open, but when I sit, the rubber straps give way like warm silly putty. I sink down, holding my breath, hoping they don't snap.

Settling my guitar on my knee, I strum softly, listening for the song of the crickets or the hum of the cicadas, but the night is solemn. So am I.

I play until I finally realize the chair is just too uncomfortable. Slipping the guitar strap over my head, I wriggle to my feet and stand by the screen, looking out over McAfee land.

Daddy, the uncles, Grandpa, Great-Grandpa McAfee, and, I believe, the grandpa before him, were all born right here in Freedom. Born free, Daddy likes to say. But for me, Freedom born isn't free. Other than the freedom Jesus gives my soul, my life feels more like a lost marble, hidden under the bed, waiting to be found.

But deep down, in the secret place, I know what I want to do with my life. Or try to do.

Write songs.

I have no idea if I'm as good as Jeeter and all say, but I'm getting a little tired of doing the two-step with fear and anxiety. A little tired of waiting around for “some day.”

All I know is when I'm old, I don't want to sip from the cup of regret, wondering what could've been. Too many people doing that already. Momma, for one. Whatever she's sipping from her I-wish-I'd-done-different cup makes her whole face pucker.

With those thoughts rattling around my soul, I sit on the old picnic bench and work out my burden with a song.

Lord, You are my wise Counselor,

My Prince of Peace,

My very best Friend,

So here I am at Your feet.

I need the wisdom of the Ancient of Days,

Enlightened eyes with a deeper faith,

I hide myself in You, O Lord

So here I am, seeking Your face.

The familiar feeling of God's pleasure shines a spotlight on the monster of worry, and it shrivels. It's in moments like these I have a sense of destiny.

“I've been looking all over for you.” With a bang, the porch door
opens and the light from the bare bulb overpowers the darkness.

I twist around to see Eliza walking toward me and close my little black notebook, clicking off my pen. “Well, well, look what the tiger dragged home. Did you flunk out of Auburn?”

“Bite your tongue.” My sister grabs a rusty lawn chair. Rather than warn her, I watch as she pops it open with a squeak and sits on the sun-baked rubber straps. Her bottom sinks below the metal frame.

“Comfy?” I grin at her.

She rests her brown head against the top of the chair. “Quite, as a matter of fact.”

“I hope you are, because your butt is stuck forever. Why do you think I'm sitting on the bench?”

She waves me off with a flick of her long fingers. “Daddy has a blow torch if I need it.”

“Sure enough. And he loves firing it up.” Come to think of it, there's not much around here that needs torching. So burning Eliza out of that old chair just might make his night. Sorta like finding a quarter between the couch cushions when you're twenty cents shy of an ice cream cone down at the Dairy Queen. It's the little things that make life worthwhile.

Eliza points at my guitar. “I liked the song you were playing. Is it new?”

“Sorta,” I say, not willing to expose my private thoughts to her. They are between me and Jesus, for now. “You missed Saturday night dinner.”

“Ah, shucks.” She snaps her fingers.

“You can forage the fridge for all the leftovers.”

“I imagine so.” She grins. “Momma's got to do something with all that Tupperware.”

I laugh. “Daddy said she bought more at a show last week.” Still strumming the same three chords over and over, I inform Eliza of the latest. “The washing machine flooded the trailer. I had to move home.”

She lifts her head. “Really?” Her chair creaks and cracks and leans a little to the left.

“Boon and Daddy helped me move back.”

“Where's Ricky?” She wiggles around to bend the chair back to the right while tugging her jeans straight at the knees.

“Took off after dinner.” The raw light from the overhead bulb shines on Eliza's sweet oval face, and suddenly I crave my sister's wisdom. “He asked me to marry him.”

“What?” She tries to jump up, but the chair refuses to let go. Her arms fly in the air over her head as the rust-ruined legs buckle, and she crashes to the floor. With her legs kicking, she tries to wrangle free while looking up at me. “What did you say?”

Grinning, I yank on the bent frame, and Eliza pops onto her feet. “I said no. I'm not ready.”

“Oh, man, did Momma have a cow or what?” She squares away her jeans and straightens her blouse.

“Shhh, she doesn't know.”

Eliza pops her hand to her forehead. “What? You know she's gonna find out. Oh, man, we're gonna have to visit her in the hospital.”

“So Momma has a history of overreacting. I don't think rejecting Ricky will send her to the ER. At least I hope not.”

With a sigh, Eliza kneels in front of me and looks me in the eye intently. “Do you love him? Do you want to marry him?”

I can't help it. Tears flood my eyes as I shrug and mutter, “I'm not ready to get married, Eliza. I don't want to marry Ricky, or any man, because I'm twenty-five and it's the next thing on a girl's to-do list.”

I prop my guitar against the bench and wander back over to the old, worn screen. “There's stuff I might like to do . . . maybe.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Write songs . . . maybe.”

At that, Eliza claps her hands. “Hallelujah, it's about time. Do it, Robin. Move to Nashville. Write songs.”

I glance back at her. “I don't know, I'm just thinking. I've still got this whole stage fright thing.”

She laughs. “I grew up in the same house with you, Robin. You're about the bravest person I know. You just have this one little thing.”

“One little thing? It's huge. The idea of singing in front of strangers terrifies me.” I square off in front of her. “And except for last night, I never sang anywhere but Granddaddy and Grandma's porch.”

“You sang in the church choir.”

“Sure, hiding in the back.”

Eliza crosses her arms with a smirk. “I'm going to England for the summer.”

“W-what? Really?” Smiling, I wrap my sister in a hug. “You've always wanted to go to England. Good for you. What will you be doing? How long will you be gone?”

“Four months. I won a fellowship to study English lit at Cambridge, all expenses paid.”

“Cambridge. Well, la-de-da.” How'd she inherit courage while I inherited fear? I take a seat on the bench again, thinking.

“Let's make this our summer, Robin.” Eliza joins me on the bench. “I'm living my dream—well, one of them. Live yours too.” She nudges me with her shoulder. “I'll go to Cambridge, you go to Nashville. Why should Steve and I be the only ones who venture out? He's married, a soldier, and a daddy-to-be.
You're
the big sister, the one we looked up to, the one who fought our battles until we could take care of ourselves.”

“Took your whuppings for you.”

Eliza sticks out her tongue. “Only once, and I've never forgiven myself for it.”

I slip my arm around her, and she rests her head against my shoulder. “I could've ratted you out, but I knew Daddy would take it easy on me. He suspected you for that mess anyway.”

“Should I confess now?”

I tug a strand of her thick, curly hair. “A little late, don't you think?”

“I suppose,” Eliza says with a grin, propping her chin in her hand. “How many songs do you have written?”

“A few.” I pick up my guitar and begin to strum softly.

“A few? Right, you had a few when you were sixteen.”

I bump my shoulder against hers. “Don't think I don't see what you're doing. Provoking me to go to Nashville.”

“Can't blame me for wanting a famous songwriting sister.”

I laugh. “Do you know how many wanna-be songwriters are waiting tables in that city, or perking coffee for some Music Row execs?”

“They aren't you.”

“Forget it, Eliza.”

“Look, just call Skyler. See if you can stay with her.”

“Ah, cousin Skyler.” I shake my head. “Last time I talked to her, she was busy with her new job. Plus, she has a roommate.”

“So, you know Skyler, Robin; she'd love to help. You two were thick as thieves growing up. And—” Eliza wags her finger at me. “—she's an entertainment lawyer, for crying out loud. Connections, my sister. Connections.”

“You want to give Momma a heart attack? You flying over the Big Pond to live for the summer and me moving to Nashville. And Steve in harm's way overseas.”

Eliza hops off the bench. “Forget about Momma, will you?” She grabs my hand, so I stop playing. “She had her day with the Lukeman Sisters, but she gave it up to marry Daddy. If she doesn't want you to try because she didn't, then too bad.”

“All right, Miss Cambridge, what if I don't make it? Then what? Come home with my guitar tucked between my legs?”

“What if you
do
make it? What if you deal with the restlessness in your soul and
be
who God made you to be? Robin, you've had four jobs since you graduated high school—a vet tech, a cashier, a clerk at the courthouse, and a stocker at Willaby's. You liked them when you started, but six months later you talked of doing something else. You tried two semesters of college and hated it too.”

“What's your point?” There's a twang of truth in her words. But isn't it easier to see when looking from the outside in?

She shakes her fist with a growl. “My point? You want to be a songwriter. Stop wasting your time searching for something else.”

“Maybe.”

I'm being a little stubborn, I admit. But if I'm going to dive off the high dive, I want to know the pool is full of water. Preferably heated.

It's after eleven when we finally flick off the porch light and go to bed. Eliza's words echo in my soul as I close my eyes.