Country Heaven (14 page)

“Tory—”

“No, you’re acting like a jerk. It’s clear you have problems with your family. Fine. Lots of people do. Nothing is a lost cause while everyone’s still living, do you hear? Your daddy has changed his mind, and Tammy came to see you, even if it was only for him. Isn’t that proof that there’s still hope?”

“Leave it alone, Tory.”

A shadow passed over her heart. “You sing about being a big tough man and doing what’s right. What a bunch of bull.”

He froze for a moment before storming out the kitchen.

***

When Rye didn’t return for dinner, Tory wrapped up the food. She’d gone too far earlier, but her hurting heart hadn’t let her stop. How could he not want to reconcile when his father was finally extending an olive branch?

She listened to NPR, trying not to think about Rye’s family. It didn’t help.

Shutting the radio off, she punched her pillow and tried to sleep. She was still awake an hour later when she heard Rye crash into the wall outside her door, followed by the click of bottles hitting the floor.

Wonderful. Alcohol had been his go–to this time. Well, at least she knew where he was. Tory pulled the pillow over her head and squeezed her eyes shut, finally managing to fall asleep.

A hand shaking her shoulder nudged her out of her dreams. She pushed it aside only for it to shake her harder. She rolled onto her back and cracked open one eye. Rye sat on her bed, backlit by the morning light curling around the window blinds.

Clutching her covers to her chest, she asked, “What are you doing?”

He was shirtless, hatless, and badly needed a shave. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy from drink. She’d seen him shirtless before, but the sight still moved her. Then her gaze fell to his black boxers, and she edged back against the wall.

“Look, I’ve barely slept,” he said. “I drank too much, and my head is splitting. I thought about what you said, okay? I’ll go home during the next concert break—but
only
on one condition.” His voice was shades deeper than normal, like he’d used gravel for mouthwash.

She smoothed back the hair falling in her eyes. “What is it?”

“You have to come with me.”

Any vestiges of sleep evaporated with that statement. “What? Are you crazy? You don’t trust anyone with information about your family. Plus, I’m your cook.”

“Don’t yell, honey. I can hear you just fine.” He pressed his fingers to his temples. “Look, I trust you plenty. You’ve seen how it is with my family—heck, you know more about the situation than almost anyone. Plus, I need food there, so if you don’t go, neither do I.”

Her hands gripped the sheets as a dark thought skated into her head. “Is this another of Clayton and Georgia’s PR schemes? Your sweet cook, going home to meet the family?”

His head jerked back. “No! God. Why would you think that?”

She searched his face and found only blank astonishment there. “Then why in the world would you want me to go?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Because it was your idea, darlin’.”

Okay, so she’d urged him to go, but it wasn’t like his decision was resting on her shoulders. “My idea! And stop using that darlin’ crap. You know I don’t buy that put–on charm of yours. You want a buffer, right? Because your sister asked me to stay.”

When he didn’t meet her eyes, she knew it was true. “That’s not my job description.
Honey.”

His face creased into a frown. “Fine. I need a buffer. And I do need to eat. Plus, you’re good with people.”

What was she going to do with him? He acted impervious and cocky one moment and then showed moments of vulnerability that made it impossible for her to step away.

“Why not take one of your friends? Clayton’s good with people too.”

He looked away and was silent for a long time. “This isn’t something you take a guy friend to deal with. And I thought…Well…”

“What?” she asked in exasperation.

“That you and I had…become friends.”

His words made warmth bloom in her heart. She felt the same way, even after that crazy kiss in Dallas. At some point, bantering with him had become the highlight of her days.

“Forget it!” He stood, the sight of his almost naked body stealing her breath again. “It was a stupid idea anyway. You’re right.”

As he turned to leave, she said, “Okay, I’ll go.”

That gorgeous body swung around. “You will?”

“Yes.”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “I suppose I’ll have to double your salary for hazard pay,” he said softly.

Suddenly it was like she’d eaten a spoonful of peanut butter. “I wouldn’t protest.”

Silence descended.

“Well, I… Thank you, Tory.” He headed for the door again.

“I’ll start breakfast,” she called after him.

His gave her a pained smile over his shoulder. “Don’t bother. I couldn’t force it down this morning. I’m going to shower and start rehearsing. I’ll see you later.”

“Rye?” she called.

Again he paused and craned his neck to look at her.

“I’m glad you think we’re friends.”

His mouth turned up briefly. “Me, too.”

Then he finally left. She tumbled back onto her bed and stared at the ceiling, breathing deeply to calm her racing heart.

They seemed like the two least likely people to become friends. And yet they had.

Was there hope for Rye and his family? What if she were wrong, and there were just more pain in store for him, for all of them?

Rye wasn’t the only one who skipped breakfast.

I cut my teeth on tradition,
With my Grandmama’s rattle in my mouth.
Tiptoed around my own house.
Grew up like a puppet.
Got pushed into something I didn’t want to be.
Followed in the family footsteps.
No one listened to me.
But the music wouldn’t stop.
My collar wanted to pop.
I couldn’t breathe.
So I fought.
My own kin hated the thought.
They set me aside.
It broke my heart.
I broke tradition.
But it didn’t break me.

Rye Crenshaw’s First Release from his Debut Album,
Breaking Tradition

Chapter 8

F
ive days later, Rye stood next to his truck in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, at dawn, waiting for Tory. There was about to be a six–day break, the longest that had been scheduled, since everyone needed some time to recharge before the final month. The tour would end in Memphis just before Labor Day weekend.

He’d called Amelia Ann to let his family know he was coming, and she’d squealed on the phone like a little girl, easing the crushing pressure in his chest a fraction. At least one person would be delighted to see him. His mind spewed out various ways his meeting with his daddy could go, not all of them pleasant.

The drive to Meade would take a day each way, so he planned to spend four full days with his family. He wished he weren’t so afraid of flying. The twelve–hour car trip would be interminable, particularly after all the traveling they’d been doing. But how could he deny his daddy? Maybe his old man really did want to reconcile. Time would tell. And if not, they could always leave early.

Clayton exited his bus and strolled to where Rye was standing. “All set?”

Rye adjusted his dark sunglasses. “Sure. Thanks for having someone drive my truck up here from Dare River.”

“Know how much you like driving it.” His friend stroked his chin.

Rye felt a frown spread across his face. When Clayton stroked his chin like that, it meant he was thinking about something he wanted to keep to himself.

“Are you sure you want to take Tory with you?” his friend asked. “You’ve always been really private about your family, and after what happened in the beginning—”

“That was easily explained.” Rye’s lip curled. “And she’s been nothing but wonderful since.”

“Fine,” he replied. “Let’s change the subject. I won’t tell you to give your family my regards since they still blame me for luring you into that karaoke bar.”

“Which is bullshit.”

They both laughed, and it felt good.

“Yeah, it was more like Mama. She had plans for you the minute she heard you sing.”

“Thank God.” He couldn’t imagine what his life would look like now if Georgia hadn’t entered his life like a fairy godmother, finding him an agent, becoming his manager, and shaping his image, making him into the star he was today.

Would he still be married to Emeline, maybe with a couple of kids? Would his Saturdays be spent on the golf course in a polo shirt, pressed cotton pants, and loafers? God. His eye twitched just thinking about it.

Rye heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Tory emerge from their bus. Good. It was time to get on the road. He didn’t want to think about this crap anymore. Bill carried her suitcase down the four steps, and he must have offered to help her carry it the rest of the way because she waved his hands away and smiled before wheeling the bag toward them. Rye’s impulse was to go over there and grab it, but he didn’t—he knew she valued her independence.

“I haven’t said it in a long time, but thanks, Clayton. For everything.”

Clayton looked over as Tory arrived. “Ah, cut it out, or you’ll make me cry. “

“As if,” Rye responded. “All ready?” He stopped himself from saying
darlin’
since she’d called him on it the other day.

“Yes,” she responded, ceding her suitcase to him when he reached for it.

Their hands brushed, and a ping ran up his arm. It had become a familiar reaction to her.

“Y’all have a safe drive now,” Clayton said.

Rye stored Tory’s bag in the cab. “I’ll check in when I can.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything. Just…”

His mouth twitched. “I know.” And he did.
Don’t do anything stupid.
The phrase had been running in his head since he woke up that morning, as nervous as he’d been before performing on stage the first time.

Rye opened Tory’s door, and once she was settled, he jumped into the driver’s side.

As he turned the key, he took a deep breath.

“You’re doing the right thing, Rye,” she said quietly. “When you have doubts, remember that.”

Going home wasn’t going to be the easiest thing he’d ever done, but he was glad he wasn’t doing it alone.

His gaze slid to his pint–sized
friend,
for whom he felt more than simple friendship.

Yeah, he was real glad he wasn’t heading down this path by himself.

***

Rye’s refusal to let her help drive ticked her off. Apparently only he drove his truck. Lovely. She found her escape, reading a new book on primitive tribes in Africa and their experiences with tourism, something that was in the sweet spot of her research. Her earbud headphones cocooned her in her own world of sound. Rye alternated between blaring country music and driving in silence.

Flying would have been faster, but given his fear, they’d
had
to take a car. Fortunately, he didn’t speed, and she recognized with gratitude that it was because she was with him.

When they reached Meade, Mississippi, about twelve hours later, she finally pulled out her earbuds. The green population sign said it was a town of 3,241 people. As they drove through a historic brick Main Street, which had three stoplights and an array of small businesses decorated with blooming plant containers out front, she could see the polish. Feel the class. This was a wealthy town still celebrating—or clinging to—its heyday.

She noticed Rye’s hands clenching the steering wheel as they headed out of town through a maze of country roads. Tory caught sight of a muddy river and clusters of majestic Spanish moss hanging from the trees. She didn’t ask him about any of it. His expression, which had become progressively surlier as the hours passed, demanded silence.

Rye slowed the truck at the entrance to a private driveway. Flanked in brick, a name plate was inscribed with the word
Hollinswood
in fancy cursive. Great oaks lined the gravel road, so it felt like the truck was easing through a shady tunnel.

Tory’s eyes widened when the white antebellum house came into view. It was arresting in the waning evening light. From everything he’d told her, she’d been prepared for old money, but the reality was something different. Because Rye was watching her out of the corner of his eyes, she forced her expression to relax.

“It looks like something out of
Gone with the Wind,”
she said in awe.

“Yeah, and we know how that movie ended,” he said.

“I liked it.”

He only snorted.

The house was an old plantation mansion, gleaming white, two–story, and flanked by four large pillars lining the massive entrance. Enormous wrought–iron lanterns hung along a veranda piped with trailing ferns and puckered–leaf hostas in greens and blues. Beds packed with multi–colored flowers angled under dogwood and crepe myrtle trees, brightening up a lush, manicured lawn as green as the Emerald Isle. The blooms in the rose garden were the size of her hand.

Hollinswood bespoke of wealth, tradition, and another world.

Rye drove around the circular driveway and parked in the shade of an old magnolia resplendent with white flowers. He was breathing audibly, almost hyperventilating, as he yanked the keys from the ignition.

“Well? Any other movie strike your fancy? Maybe
North and South?
”

Tory slid her reading glasses off. Not wanting to add to the charged silence, she evaded the question. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

The smell of fresh–cut grass and magnolia flowers greeted her when she exited the truck. Her khaki Capri pants and red top seemed much too informal now, as did the gold sandals showcasing the red toes she’d painted in a fit of boredom yesterday.

Rye headed toward the door, his boots dragging on the gravel. If this were where he was from, no wonder he never talked about it. Plantation–style money was a far cry from the rabble–rousing cowboy he presented himself to be. When he’d said they’d disowned him, she’d thought it a strange term. Seeing his family’s home, she understood. People with this kind of money had something
to
disown.