A Plain Love Song (38 page)
“The right time.”
“See that you don’t wait too long.” She turned and marched away.
Her words echoed those of Irene Knepp. How long was too long? Matthew waited until Molly disappeared into the dining room. He ran a finger over the blue envelope. It was wrinkled from his grip. He smoothed it.
Gott, please. I need to know what to do. Your plan. Your timing. Your will. But I need to know what to do.
Having no pockets, he did the next best thing and tucked Adah’s letter inside his shirt. Close to his heart.
A
dah shoved the mop and broom into the closet next to the empty bucket and closed the door. She brushed her hands together and looked around. The coffeehouse looked spiffy. It had that rich, mouthwatering aroma of coffee beans and freshly brewed coffee. No amount of bleach and glass cleaner and dish soap would take that away. The café was full of round tables that seated no more than four, mostly two, and was small compared to the houses she used to clean. People came here to sip coffee, chat, and use the free wi-fi. She wasn’t totally clear on what that was, but it didn’t matter as long as they bought the cookies and muffins she made. She could do this job with one hand tied behind her back. For the amount they paid her, she felt she should do it twice as often. Jolene had left her to finish mopping the floors and wiping down the counters, but the assistant manager had taken care of the coffee urns and running the dishwasher. Adah appreciated that. She still had a lingering sense of unease when she dealt with electrical appliances.
Fingering the check in the pocket of the red café apron Jolene insisted she wear, Adah peered out the rain-splattered window. Jackson’s truck sat idling in front of the café. Good. She was pleased to be able to tell him she had another paycheck. Tomorrow, he could take her to the bank to cash it. In the month that had passed since Jolene hired her on the spot and took the
HELP WANTED
sign out of the window,
Adah had gone back and forth a hundred times on what to do next. The more she practiced the guitar, the more she liked it. She had written a dozen songs. They flowed from her with the help of the musical accompaniment. She could write. She simply couldn’t perform in public. She loved playing with Jackson down by the lake. When he was sober and had a guitar in his hands, the music flowed between them so freely she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Certainly not in a studio or on a stage. Jackson refused to accept this as her fate, but he hadn’t pushed her into auditioning again.
The uneasy truce between them had held, but she often saw him watching her, the waiting and the wanting clearly written on his face. No matter how quickly she looked away or how quickly he wiped the feelings from his face, leaving sadness and bewilderment, they both knew the unanswered questions would never leave of their own accord.
Today, the sadness had left the premises—at least for a short time. He thought he was about to land a job on the Sullivan Keats Show. But he’d been saying some variation of that claim every day since they arrived. He worked hard for his dream and he believed. She prayed today would be the day it came true for him. Even if it meant leaving her behind. Especially if it meant leaving her behind.
She shoved through the door, pulled it closed behind her, and locked it with the key Jolene had given her. The traffic had cleared for the night and the streets were almost quiet. Streetlights shimmered on puddles that dotted the sidewalk. A gust of warm, moist wind sent trash and leaves scuttling along the sidewalk around her. Fine mist settled on her cheeks, cooling her after the heat of the café. It was a welcome preview to the fall weather that surely couldn’t be far behind. Her pillow would feel good under her head tonight. Something akin to contentment stole over her. Something she hadn’t felt in a long while. She welcomed it back like an old friend.
“Hey, baby. There you are. I was just coming in for you.” Jackson leaned through the open window, waving wildly. “I could use a cup of coffee.”
His words slurred. Cup of coffee came out
cuffofee
.
Adah halted halfway between the building and the street. “Are you all right?”
“Couldn’t be better.” He laughed so loudly a couple walking on the other side of the street looked over at them, ducked their heads, and sped up. “I been hanging with my pal Clay and the band. Jammin’. We been writing songs.”
She’d heard that line before, many times since their arrival in Branson. It was getting old, like a song played on the radio too many times. “Jamming and drinking?”
“A little. To grease the wheels, make the song come faster.”
She’d never needed alcohol to write a song. “I don’t think you’re supposed to drink and drive.” Even she, who didn’t drive, knew that. “Maybe we should go inside and I’ll make you some coffee.”
Coffee and alcohol. Did one cancel out the other? It didn’t seem likely, but at least it would give the alcohol time to wear off. Exactly how long did that take?
“I brought you some.” He held up a metal flask that sparkled in the streetlight. “Clayton gave it to me. One for the road. He knew I was feeling down and he wanted to give me a pick-me-up.”
“A pick-me-up. He knew you were driving?” The meaning of his words hit her. “Why were you feeling down?”
“Sullivan hired someone else to sing backup and play guitar. Not me. Said I was a little too green. To come back after I had a little more pickin’ and grinnin’ under my belt.” He burped, then slapped his hand over his mouth. After a second or two, he removed it, a sheepish grin still plastered across his face. “How am I supposed to get more experience if no one will hire me?”
She didn’t know the answer to that question. “I’m sorry. You need to keep practicing and getting better. That’s all.”
“In this town it ain’t about getting better. It’s about who you know.”
“What about Clayton?”
“Clayton’s going to Nashville. He’s got an offer to sign with a label. He’s gonna cut a record and then he’s gonna tour with a couple of other bands, big names.”
“Good for him.”
“I asked him for a job too.”
If Jackson went with Clayton to Nashville, what would she do? Work at the café? Find another place to live? Go home? She shied away from the thought. She couldn’t go home and watch Matthew court another woman. “And he said no?”
“He said he didn’t need any more musicians and he doesn’t need a female singer.” Singer came out
shinger
. “He was real apologetic about it. If he had an opening he would take us both in a heartbeat, but he can’t pay no more folks than he already has. Not until his record starts selling.”
“You asked for me?”
“’Course I did. I told him we were a package deal.”
Jackson had such a good heart. She did love that about him. Loved that. But the rest of it…the restlessness, the inability to go slow, the impulsiveness…it reminded her of herself. Put the two of them together and they were bound to explode. She closed her eyes against another gust of wind that knocked her back a step. Two flash fires roaring across a dry field, meeting in the middle, creating an inferno, were bound to leave destruction in their wake.
It would never work. She needed slow and steady. She needed Matthew.
Too late.
“Why are you standing there looking like you just swallowed a porcupine, girl? Come on, get in.” He slapped the side of the truck. “They’re jammin’ over at the Lariat. Pete and Josh and Cody, they’re all there. Let’s go play some music.”
And all drunk, she had no doubt. This tape on rewind was getting mighty old. “I can’t get in the truck with you.”
“Why not?”
“You’re drunk.”
“No, I ain’t.” Jackson banged the flask on the door. It dropped to the ground. “Oh, man.” He shoved open his door and slid out, his boot connecting with the flask, sending it spinning across the sidewalk. He
staggered, took a swipe at it, and missed. “It’s a slippery little
shucker,
isn’t it?”
He straightened and whooped with laughter.
Adah picked it up for him. It reeked of whiskey. “Let’s go inside.”
“No, no, no. We need to get to our pickin’ and grinnin’. We need to practice. Only way we can get good enough.” He grabbed her arm and leaned close. His breath reeked worse than the flask. “Come on, get in on my side and scoot over—or don’t. You can sit real close if you want. I won’t mind. We gotta play. The boys are waiting.”
“I can’t.” She tried to tug free. His grip tightened.
“Come on, baby.”
“Don’t call me that.” She tugged harder and jerked away. “Stop it. Right now.”
He stepped back, both hands lifted as if in surrender. The hazy alcohol-induced happiness ebbed away. His shoulders dropped and his blue eyes begged her for something she couldn’t give him. “I’m still waiting, you know.”
“Waiting for what?”
“See, it’s not even that important to you.” He took a swig from the flask and tossed it into the street. “I’m still waiting for you to give me permission.”
“We’ve talked about this. You know I can’t.”
“I told you I wouldn’t do it again until you gave me permission.” He tossed his hat through the truck’s window and faced her, bareheaded in the rain. “How long will I have to wait?”
“We don’t do that.”
“You don’t kiss?”
“Not unless we’re serious about getting married.”
“So marry me.”
He really was drunk. Or crazy.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“You don’t want me either, do you?” He clamored into the truck. The tip of his boot caught on the foot guard, causing him to tumble into the seat. He cursed. “No one wants me.”
“I’m so sorry.” She shut his door and leaned in the window, searching for a way to offer him comfort without encouraging something that couldn’t be. “It’s not that I don’t like you. I like you, I care about what happens to you, but I can’t marry you. You’ve been good to me. I appreciate what you’ve done for me, giving me a chance to write songs and learn music.”
“Like me? You’re killing me, Amish girl.” He started the truck and revved the engine. “You think I like you? I love you. Don’t you get that? I love you.”
“No, you don’t. You like the idea of me, the singing Amish girl.” She wanted to wipe the rain from his face and smooth back the hair that hung in his eyes, but he would see it as something more than it was. “We’re partners, remember? Songwriters and singers.”
“You don’t love me because you love that other guy—the one you were dreaming about.”
“What are you talking about?”
The rain made his hair curl in damp ringlets on his forehead, the streetlights giving his eyes a sad shine. “The one whose name you said when you were sleeping on the ride down here in July. Matthew.”
Her skin went hot despite the cool rain that slid like tears down her cheeks. She raised her hands to her face, trying to hide the heat that blossomed there. She’d called Matthew’s name in her sleep that first day. And many nights since, if her dreams were any indication. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
He took off, gears grinding, tires screeching, zigzagging as the truck sought traction on the wet pavement. A horn blared. He responded with the repeated strident honking of his own horn and sped up.
She stood there breathing the exhaust fumes until the noise of the truck disappeared into the night. The rain soaked her dress and chilled her skin. Shivering, she stared at the space where the truck had been. She never meant to hurt Jackson. Just like she’d never meant to hurt Matthew. Her selfish desire to run to her dreams had left two men’s feelings trampled. She’d put herself first. Not them and surely not God.
Bowing her head against a wet wind that picked up the rain and
pelted her, Adah prayed. For forgiveness. For understanding. For peace. For courage. For direction. She needed God to tell her what to do next.
Nothing.
No voice spoke to her. The wind whistled in the hollow silence of her head.
She raised her face and let the rain wash away the filth and grime that no one but God could see. Her mudder’s favorite saying played in her head:
JOY: Jesus, Others, You.
Adah had gotten them backward and look what happened.
A cluster of folks hooted and hollered down the block a piece. An intense shiver scurried up her spine and shook her body. Standing here on a dark street wasn’t wise. Branson wasn’t New Hope. It was a strange new world. She groped for the café key and unlocked the door with shaking fingers. Inside, she flipped on the lights, leaned against the heavy wood for a second, and then turned and re-locked the door. Just to be safe.
Now what?
Her head ached and her eyes burned.
Gott, I’m so sorry. So sorry. I’ve been so selfish and so foolish.
She closed her eyes and waited, listening. The tick-tock of Jolene’s favorite kitty-cat clock with its long tail swishing back and forth filled the room, mixing with the sound of rain. It picked up in a sudden gust of wind and slammed against the windows. No loving voice of reason. Had God forsaken her? No. According to Luke, He would never do that. Maybe He was waiting for her to do the right thing.
First step, figure out how to get back to the Hart cabin. Grownup women dealt with situations like this. One step at a time. Sucking in air, she marched to the back of the café to the small work area that contained Jolene’s desk, her computer, a calculator, and a smattering of office supplies. And a phone. Jolene rarely used it, what with her cell phone being practically stuck to her ear like a favorite accessory.
